A  CANTICLE  OF  PAN 

And  Other  Poems 


BOOKS  BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

YOUNG  HARVARD 

TIGER 

THE  LITTLE   KING 

THE   NEW  WORLD 

IPHIGENIA   IN  TAURIS 

(an  English  version) 

SPECTRA 

(with  Arthur  Davison  Ficke) 

GRENSTONE   POEMS 

THE   BELOVED   STRANGER 

A  CANTICLE   OF  PRAISE 

In  Preparation 

A   CHINESE   ANTHOLOGY 

(with  S.  C.  Kiang,  Kang-Hu) 


A  CANTICLE  OF  PAN 

And  Other  Poems 


By 
WITTER  BTNNER 


New  Tork 
ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


' 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


To 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  ON  THE  HILL 

Edna  Garnett     Porter  Garnett     Elvira  Foote 


4 162 98 


A  cknowledgment 

At  Berkeley,  California,  on  the  eleventh  of 
November,  1918,  I  was  asked  for  a  poem  with 
which  the  ending  of  the  war  might  be  celebrated 
in  the  Greek  Theatre.  From  that  request,  and 
from  the  opportunity  offered  by  an  outdoor  stage 
and  by  the  assurance  of  a  vast  audience  moved 
and  ardent  with  the  occasion,  sprang  the  form 
which  I  have  called  a  "  canticle." 

On  December  fourth  The  Canticle  of  Praise 
had  its  first  presentation,  before  eight  thousand 
people.  Sam  Hume  and  I  took  the  parts  of  the 
two  cantors;  and  between  us  stood  four  students, 
two  of  them  soldiers,  two  of  them  sailors,  with 
drums  and  cymbals,  with  fife  and  trumpet  and 
bugle.  In  the  hymns,  led  by  Arthur  Farwell,  we 
had  not  feared  unresponsiveness,  for  we  knew 
of  Percy  Mackaye's  Successes  with  spontaneous 
choral  music.  We  were  hopeful  also  that  a  huge 
audience  might  be  as  ready  to  participate  in  lines 
of  the  verse  as  smaller  audiences  have  been  with 
responses  to  the  poetic  exhortation  of  Vachel 
Lindsay.  And  our  suspense  wholly  ended  when 
the  first  echo  came  back  to  us  —  "  Liege!  " 
— vii — 


To  Porter  Garnett  I  am  much  indebted  for  his 
watchful  and  able  criticism  of  The  Canticle  of 
Praise  as  a  poem  for  large  audiences  and  to  Sam 
Hume  for  encouraging  and  producing  it  and  giv 
ing  it  the  power  of  his  voice  and  presence. 

The  Canticle  of  Pan  was  delivered  in  June, 
1919,  as  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  California.  And,  finally,  The  Canticle  of 
Bacchus  was  performed  under  the  star-tipped  nave 
of  a  grove  of  redwoods. 

S.  C.  Kiang,  Kang-Hu,  poet  and  scholar,  has 
approved  the  essential  accuracy  of  my  English 
versions  of  several  anonymous  "  Old  Chinese 
Songs  "  from  the  Confucian  Book  of  Poetry,  dat 
ing,  some  of  them,  from  a  thousand  years  before 
Christ;  and  I  owe  to  his  friendliness  at  Berkeley 
my  discovery  of  the  native  beauty  of  these  and 
other  Chinese  masterpieces. 

John  Henry  Nash  of  San  Francisco  has  printed 
a  very  beautiful  private  edition  of  The  Canticle 
of  Praise;  and  an  incorporated  translation  of 
fimile  Cammaerts'  poem  L' Amour  de  la  Patrie, 
had  appeared  in  The  Metropolitan  Magazine; 
but  this  is  the  first  public  printing  of  the  Canticle 
entire.  Part  of  The  Canticle  of  Pan  has  been 
printed  in  McCall's  Magazine,  the  editor  of  which 
kindly  permits  reproduction  of  the  drawing  by 
Charles  S.  Chapman.  The  Canticle  of  Bacchus 
— viii — 


was  published  recently  in  The  Harvard  Advocate. 
Others  of  the  poems  have  appeared  in  The 
Nation,  The  New  Republic,  Poetry,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  The  Forum,  The  Bellman,  McClure's 
Magazine,  The  Bookman,  Contemporary  Verse, 
The  Smart  Set,  The  Boston  Transcript,  The  New 
York  Tribune,  The  New  York  Times,  The  Met- 
ropolitan  Magazine,  The  Occident,  The  Little  Re 
view,  The  Midland,  Harper's  Weekly,  The  Dial, 
Asia,  The  Touchstone,  Youth,  The  Modern 
School,  McCall's  Magazine,  The  Trend,  The 
Quill,  The  Ploughshare  and  The  London  Nation. 

WITTER  BYNNER. 
New  York,  February  20,  1920. 


-ix — 


CONTENTS 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT  vii 
PROLOGUE  i 

YOUTH  SINGS  TO  THE  SEA  3 
»A  CANTICLE  OF  PAN  7 
THE  WILD  STAR  17 
THE  CARDINAL'S  GARDEN  18 
THE  Two  SENTINELS  23 
A  CANTICLE  OF  BACCHUS  24 
VINTAGE  34 
POINT  BONITA  35 
LOOK  IN  THE  WATER  40 
ROMANCE  42 
PROPERTY  44 
VAGRANT  46 
GIPSYING  47 
FIRE-MUSIC  48 
SWEET  CHARIOT  49 
CHIEFTAINS  50 
FROM  SEA  52 
MASTER  OF  MOONS,  53 
IN  HAVANA  54 
HASKELL  55 
PITTSBURGH  57 

— xi— 


THE  PATRICIANS  58 

THE  Two  THIEVES  60 

THE  TREE  61 

A  DEAD  ONE  62 

A  FORTUNE-TELLER  65 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TESTAMENT  67 

THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD  70 

A  SONG  IN  THE  GRASS  73 

A  RED-WING  74 

MEADOW-SHOES  75 

GRASS-TOPS  76 

THE  SANDPIPER  77 

THE  ENCHANTED  TOAD  78 

THE  ENCHANTED  SWANS  79 

THE  SWIMMER  80 

CARVINGS  OF  CATHAY  81 

THROUGH  A  GATEWAY  IN  JAPAN  83 

JAPANESE  NOTES  84 

IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  LAFCADIO  HEARN 

IN  THE  YOSHIWARA 

IN  A  TEMPLE 

IN  A  THEATRE 

IN  A  POEM 

IN  A  PAINTING 
IN  KAMAKURA  86 

THE  NEIGHBORS  HELP  HIM  BUILD  His  HOUSE  87 
CHINESE  NOTES  89 

IN  MANCHURIA 

IN  PEKING 

THE  MING  TOMBS 

IN  SHANTUNG 

— xii — 


CHINESE  DRAWINGS  91 

A  FATHER 

A  TEA-GIRL 

A  WANDERER 

A  LOVER 

A  VENDOR  OF  ROSE-BUSHES 

A  PAINTER 

A  LADY 

A  SCHOLAR 

A  PHILOSOPHER 

A  HORSEMAN 

THE  CHINESE  HORSEMAN  94 
TILES  96 

THE  PURE-HEARTED  GIRL  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)  97 
COLLOQUY  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)  99 
HOME  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)   100 
THE  Two  RIVERS  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)    102 
THE  SILK-DEALER  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)    104 
THE  FORSAKEN  WIFE  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)   106 
CHANGE  (FROM  THE  CHINESE)   107 
TEMPLE-INSCRIPTIONS  108 
NIGHT  (FROM  THE  RUSSIAN)   109 
RUSSIANS  (To  STEPHEN  GRAHAM)   in 

AN  ENGLISHMAN 

A  CONCERTINA-PLAYER 

A  PROPHET 

A  DRUNKARD 

A  MISERABLE  MAIDEN 

AN  OLD  MAN 

A  BOY 

A  GIRL 


A  REVOLUTIONARY 
A  COMMUNIST 
A  MOUJIK 
PAN  SINGS  119 
ROBERT  BROWNING  120 
A  PORTRAIT  122 

You  TOLD  ME  OF  YOUR  MOTHER  123 
To  A  YOUNG  PASSER-BY  126 
THE  DESERT  (To  DAVID  GREENHOOD)  127 
You  TOLD  ME  OF  AN  EAGLE  (To  WORTH  RYDER)  128 
AT  A  CALIFORNIA  HOMESTEAD  (To  JACK  LYMAN)  129 
ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA  (To  ELVIRA  FOOTE)  130 
AWAY  FROM  CALIFORNIA  (To  EDNA  GARNETT)   132 
REMINDER  (To  HANIEL  LONG)  133 
A  DINNER-TABLE  (To  SCUDDER  MIDDLETON)  134 
THE  HOUSE  OF  Music  (To  FLORENCE  BLUMEN- 

THAL)  135 

VOICES  (To  SARA  TEASDALE)   136 
Two    POETS   READING   TOGETHER    (To   WILFRID 

WILSON  GIBSON  AND  WALTER  DE  LA  MARE)   137 
To  ONE  YOUNG  AS  A  ROSE  (To  ROSE  O'NEILL),  138 
IN  A  RIVER-TOWN  (To  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBIN 
SON)  139 

TILL  SPRING  (To  SARAH  ERNST  ABBOTT)  140 
IN  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  PAINTER  (To  WARREN 

ROCKWELL),  141 

RICHARD  (To  RICHARD  MANSFIELD  2ND)  142 
THE  BOXER  (To  JACK  LONDON)  143 
ALOHA  OE  (To  QUEEN  LILIUOKALANI)   144 
To  SHEPHERDS  AND  WISE  MEN  (!N  MEMORY  OF 

ANNA  HOWARD  SHAW)  145 
RAIN  (To  CELIA  KEAYS)  147 
— xiv — 


NIGHT  (To  CELIA  KEAYS)  148 

AN  ODE  TO  A  DANCER  (To  ISADORA  DUNCAN)  149 

ISADORA  (To  HER  Six  DANCERS)  151 

TOLSTOI  152 

SAINT-GAUDENS  153 

WHITMAN  154 

ACROSS  THE  FERRY  TO  FORT  LEE  156 

ALMA  MATER  160 

JANE  ADDAMS  161 

To  GERMANY  162 

FOAM  163 

SANDS  164 

NEWS  OF  A  SOLDIER  165 

THE  WOUNDS  166 

NIAGARA-ON-THE-LAKE  167 

KIT  THURBER  —  UNSEEN  THESE  THIRTY  YEARS  168 

THE  THUNDER-BRINGER  171 

THE  LIGHT-BRINGER  174 

REPUBLIC  TO  REPUBLIC  176  • 

THE  HOME-LAND  (FROM  THE  FRENCH)  177 

A  CANTICLE  OF  PRAISE  181 

THE  DAY  192 

JEWS  OF  THE  WORLD  193 

PREPARE!  194 

SHANTUNG  196 

AN  AMERICAN  198 

RUSSIA  199 

To  A  PRESIDENT  201 

JEHOVAH  202 

THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  BODY  203 

THE  TRUE  PACIFIST  204 

— xv — 


THE  MASK  205 
THE  ECLIPSE  206 
GARDENING  207 
EPILOGUE 
*  To  A  VOLUNTEER  211 

THE  FAUN  THAT  WENT  TO  WAR  212 

THE  SINGING  FAUN  213 


— xvt- 


Prologue 


Youth  Sings  to  the  Sea 

Take  it,  O  high  wave,  take  it,  O  deep !  — r 

A  song  for  the  sky  to  catch  and  keep, 

A  song  of  the  singing  of  many  men 

Who  were  born  and  dead  and  are  born  again; 

While  Youth  to  the  trembling  of  his  lyre 

Sweeps  his  hand  with  a  stroke  of  fire 

And  calls  to  the  mountain,  to  the  sea, 

To  make  him  the  god  that  he  shall  be, 

To  make  the  beauty  of  his  side 

An  inlet  for  a  moonlit  tide, 

To  petal  his  knee-bones  with  the  gold 

Of  yellow  lilies  valleys  hold, 

To  make  his  ankles  winged  things 

Which  out  of  the  south  the  warm  wind  brings, 

To  make  moon-columns  of  his  thighs 

And  of  his  brow  and  breast  sun-rise, 

And  to  make  of  the  sum  of  all  of  these 

A  human  tree  of  mysteries, 

An  oracle  of  only  truth 

Moving  in  the  leaves  of  Youth, 

Answering  striplings  far  away 

—3— 


Thai:  he  can  sl/11  be  young  as  they 
Who  are  god-like  when  they  fling 
Off  from  their  beauty  everything, 
So  to  be  always  young  as  he  ... 
Hear  it,  take  it,  sing  it,  sea ! 


—4' 


A  Canticle  of  Pan 


A  Canticle  of  Pan 

(The  two  Cantors  stand,  one  at  either  end  of  a 
concave  screen  of  trees) 

The  First  Cantor 

Come  through  a  thousand  years,  and  another  thou 
sand  years, 

Come  back  through  all  the  columns  to  the  temple 
of  the  sky 

Where  the  sun  was  a  god  and  the  moon  was  a  god 
and  stripling  charioteers 

Were  led  by  the  gods,  by  the  sun  and  moon,  to  die. 

Come  through  a  thousand  years,  and  another  thou 
sand  years, 

Come  through  all  the  temples  from  here  to  Thes- 
saly, 

To  the  temple  of  the  ocean,  to  the  tossing  of  the 
spears 

Of  sunlight  and  of  moonlight  by  the  sea  — 

Where  a  golden  youth  was  singing,  holding  high 
his  lyre, 

A  Greek  youth  was  singing,  along  his  mortal  way, 

The  challenge  to  beauty,  the  stealing  of  the  fire, 
—7— 


The  paean  of  an  athlete  of  the  clay 

To  the  wonder  of  his  body  unwoundcd  by  the 

spears, 

To  the  body  purely  born  as  spring  is  in  a  tree, 
Born  and  surely  dying  as  a  wave  disappears, 
When  the  god  of  gods  was  beauty,  by  the  sea. 

The  Second  Cantor 

Singing  of  the  beautiful,  singing  of  the  strong  — 

And  yet  hear  the  sobbing  hidden  in  the  song! 

For  the  master  of  man  is  death.  And  beauty  can 
not  save 

But  changing,  forsaking,  turns  from  the  grave  .  .  . 

Only  the  gods  are  deathless.  And  who  and  what 
are  they? 

Are  they  wise  above  desire,  are  they  calm  beyond 
dismay, 

Are  they  certain  in  their  circle  of  compassion  and 
high  will, 

Starry  in  the  midnight,  sunny  in  the  noon  ? 

Pan  (appearing) 

They  are  hotter  than  the  sun,  they  are  colder  than 

the  moon! 

And  I  am  Pan  accusing,  like  the  breezes  of  a  hill. 
They  are  jealous,  they  are  angry,  they  are  eaten 

with  desire, 

Amorous  of  mortals,  monstrous  in  their  ease, 
As  terrible  as  ice  and  as  anguishing  as  fire  .  .  . 
—8— 


Once  I  went  imploring  them  on  my  shaggy  knees 
To  be  more  divine  than  lions,  or  eagles  of  the 

air  — 
And    what    did    the    gods    say,    answering    my 

prayer ! — 
They  laughed  at  my  tail,  they  pulled  my  little 

horns, 

They  ordered  me  back  to  my  fellowship  of  goats, 
They  bade  me  raise  a  breed  of  sacred  unicorns 
To  draw  them  in  their  chariots  and  comfortable 

floats. 
You  think  of  them  as  tinctured  by  the  azure  of  the 

sky 

So  that  all  their  vexings  and  their  villainies  dis 
perse  .  .  . 

The  beasts  are  bad  enough  to  judge  men  by  — 
But  let  me  cry  aloud :  The  gods  are  worse !  .  .  . 
So  I  choose  my  young  horses,  my  hoofs  of  the 

hills, 

My  antelopes,  my  nightingales,  my  fins  of  the  sea. 
Among  men,  among  gods,  there  are  sinister  wills 
And  no  simple  comrade  for  me  — 
O  even  the  sea-nymphs  and  dryads  and  fauns 
Are  jealous  conspirers  and  bickering  shrews 
And  liars  and  lechers  and  sleep  through  the  dawns 
When  I  sweeten  my  pipes  with  the  dews  .  .  . 
But  the  mountains  are  different  —  O  mountainous 

ways 


Where  the  leap  of  a  foot  is  a  singing  of  praise ! 
And  the  ocean  is  different  where  waves  never  die 
And  the  gust  of  a  gull  is  a  pulse  of  the  sky  — 
Where  all  things  are  one  thing  and  shout  aloud  in 

me, 
The  mountain  and  the  valley,  the  river  and  the 

sea! 
Hark  the  lion,  hark  the  leopard,  hark  the  elephant 

and  hark 
The  dove  and  the  nightingale,   the  pelican,   the 

lark! 

O  my  pipes  pipe  of  everything,  they  hold  an  end 
less  song  — 
Yet  they  never  pipe  far  enough  for  all  they  pipe 

so  strong, 

Never  pipe  contentment  for  all  they  pipe  so  long. 
There  are  tears  in  their  piping  and  no  surcease  of 

the  tears, 
There  are  fears  in  their  piping  and  no  quieting  of 

fears. 
There  is  laughter  in  my  piping  —  but  behind  the 

laugh  an  ache 

For  something  I  am  calling  and  never  can  awake, 
And  I  think  I  know  what  men  mean  who  tell  of 

hearts  that  break. 

The  First  Cantor 

Why  is  he  pausing  now,  straining  with  his  eye 
Across  the  multitudinous  sky? 
— 10 — 


Pan 

One  of  my  stars  is  moving  out  of  line 

And  is  larger  than  the  others  and  has  a  longer 

shine, 

And  under  it  three  men  travel  with  its  ray  .  .  . 
Could  yesterday  be  night?     Can  tonight  be  day? 

(The  People  sing  a  Carol;  the  First  Wise  Man 
enters) 

The  First  Cantor 

Pan,  listen !  —  hear  what  they  say ! 

The  First  Wise  Man  (passing  across) 
I  heard  a  shepherd  blow  his  horn  — 
In  Bethlehem  a  child  is  born. 

Pan 

And  what  should  be  so  strange  in  that, 

A  little  new  Jehosophat ! 

(The  People  sing  a  Carol;  the  Second  Wise  Man 
enters) 

The  Second  Wise  Man  (following  the  other) 
I  heard  a  herald  blow  his  horn  — 
In  Bethlehem  a  king  is  born. 

Pan 

A  king  is  born  in  Bethlehem  ? 
For  what?     The  Jewish  diadem? 
Gulls  are  laughing  in  the  foam, 
For  Jewish  kings  are  born  in  Rome ! 


The  Second  Cantor 

Conqueror  of  conquerings, 

Counsellor  of  other  kings, 

Comes  a  king  from  Nazareth, 

To  conquer  Rome  — -  to  conquer  death ! 

Pan 

Death  is  the  conqueror  which  man 

Cannot  conquer,  never  can. 

However  hard  Jehovah  try 

To  help  a  man,  a  man  must  die  .  .  . 

The  man  he  fashioned  out  of  sod 

As  witness  to  a  jealous  god, 

And  the  woman  too  from  the  man's  side, 

Lived  a  little  while  —  and  died. 

And  the  older  gods  were  laughing  strong 

To  see  Jehovah  come  along 

Still  magnificent  but  pale 

From  failing,  as  a  god  must  fail, 

To  inspire  his  man  with  breath 

Deep  enough  to  conquer  death. 

( The  People  sing  a  Carol;  the  Third  Wise  Man 
enters) 

The  Third  Wise  Man  (following  the  others) 
I  heard  an  angel  blow  his  horn  — 
In  Bethlehem  a  god  is  born. 
— 12 — 


Pan 

That  word  goes  through  me  as  though  rain 

Arrowed  my  body  with  wild  pain  .   .  . 

O  once  there  was  a  prophecy 

That  one  should  come  .  .   .  if  it  be  he  — 

Good-bye,  my  hills  and  valleys,  good-bye,  rippling 

shore, 
Good-bye,  winged  leaves !     Though  I  never  loved 

you  more, 

More  than  I  love  you  now,  woods  in  bloom, 
Yet  good-bye,  earth,  they  are  calling  my  doom. 
Good-bye,  holly,  mistletoe, 
Good-bye,  laurel,  I  must  go. 
They  are  casting  me  down  from  my  dance  of  the 

spring 

With  a  chant  that  Pan  can  never  sing. 
Sunset,  moonrise,  starry  sky, 
Ocean,  lightning,  rain,  —  good-bye ! 
(He  runs  away) 

The  First  Cantor 

An  ancient  oracle  foretold  the  death 
That  Pan  must  die :  how  his  unearthly  breath 
And  earthly  should  be  gathered  in  one  groan 
And  he  and  all  the  gods  be  overthrown 
By  a  new  god  born  in  a  little  town, 
A  truer  god  than  they,  wearing  a  crown 
Of  light  they  never  wore,  and  how  a  star 
—13— 


Should  make  a  pilgrimage,  and  how  from  far 
Three  wise  and  mighty  men,  coming  to  bring 
Obeisance,  should  acclaim  a  child  their  king. 

The  Second  Cantor 
Now  you  shall  hear  an  anguish  smite 
The  silence  of  this  holy  night. 
Hark,  and  you  shall  hear  a  cry 
Shake  the  hills  —  for  Pan  must  die. 

Pan  (entering  exalted) 

No,  no  !     I  am  alive !     I  need  not  die ! 

I  went  to  look  at  him,  I  pressed  my  eye 

Close  to  a  narrow  crack  beside  his  bed 

And  saw  the  starlight  shining  round  his  head, 

And  saw  his  little  moving  leg  and  his  little  moving 

arm 

And  I  forgot  the  oracle  and  no  more  harm 
Was  in  the  world  for  me  at  all,  forever  from  that 

minute, 
Because  I  found  a  manger  and  a  little  baby  in 

it  ... 

Everyone  was  sleeping.     He  was  sleeping  too. 
But  I  lifted  my  pipes  and  softly  I  blew, 
And  a  dove  was  on  my  shoulder  and  the  lambs,  I 

felt  them  stand 

Very  close  beside  me.  And  then  in  his  hand 
I  laid  my  sprig  of  mistletoe  and  my  holly  at  his 

feet, 

— 14— 


And  I  leaned  and  touched  his  lips,  and  O  the  touch 

was  sweet ! 

I  laughed.     He  laughed.     No  one  else  awoke 
And  only  I,  only  Pan,  heard  him  when  he  spoke. 
He  spoke  not  with  his  lips,  nor  wholly  with  his 

eyes, 
Nor  to  me,  but  within  me  —  and  O  but  we  were 

wise, 
Wiser  than  his  mother  dreamed  or  his   father 

knew, 

And  O  but  we  were  happy,  Christ  and  I,  we  two  ! 
For  he  whispered  to  me : 

"  Some  day,  Pan,  they  shall  understand, 
Though  they  try  to  do  without  you  now,  that  over 

sea  and  land 

You  are  piping,  piping  —  wiser  than  a  word, 
Deeper  than  death,  sweeter  than  a  bird  — 
The  music  beauty  almost  heard 
When  long  ago  you  tried  to  play 
Joy  to  the  gods  and  they  laughed  you  away. 
I  laugh  too  —  but  I  watch  where  you  go 
And,  when  I  am  older,  I  shall  follow  you,  I  know. 
And  dance  on  the  paths  with  you  and  sing  on  the 

hills 
With  thrushes  and  with  nightingales,  with  larks 

and  whip-poor-wills. 

For  you  have  sung  together  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
And  the  binding  of  the  hearts  of  men  shall  be  the 

song  for  me. 

—15— 


And  the  one  is  the  other  and  the  other  is  the  one. 
So  pipe  — ?  with  the  music  of  your  fervor  and  your 

fun  — 
My  laughter  and  my  wonder,  as  you  have  always 

done    .    .    . 
Then,  note  by  note,  those  perfect  notes  that  you 

were  dreaming  of, 
Till  there  is  only  peace,  till  there  is  only  love." 


—i  6— 


The  Wild  Star 

There  is  a  star  whose  bite  is  certain  death 
While  the  moon  but  makes  you  mad  — 
So  run  from  stars  till  you  are  out  of  breath 
On  a  spring  night,  my  lad, 
Or  slip  among  the  shadows  of  a  pine 
And  hide  face  down  from  the  sky 
And  never  stir  and  never  make  a  sign, 
Till  the  wild  star  goes  by. 


—27— 


The  Cardinal's  Garden 

Villa  Albani 

Here  in  this  place  which  I  myself  did  plan 

With   poplars,    oaks    and   fountains  — -  and   with 

sculpture, 

The  rounded  body  of  the  soul  of  beauty  — 
Here  in  this  garden,  by  my  own  command 
I  sit  alone,  under  the  freshening  twilight. 

Not  to  my  eyes  shall  be  made  visible 
Ever  again  morning  or  noon  or  twilight, 
Not  to  my  eyes  which  are  my  servants  now 
No  longer,  save  as  servants  in  the  grave. 
But  to  my  forehead  and  my  finger-tips 
The  days  give  touch  of  bud  and  opening 
And  of  their  bloom  and  of  their  hovering  fall. 

The  morrow  shall  be  born  with  sighs  and  rain. 
But  this  is  peace,  this  twilight,  this  is  pause 
Between  the  sunny  and  the  rainy  day, 
Pause  for  the  elements  and  pause  for  me, 
— 1 8— 


As  though  it  were  a  silver  brook  that  ran 
Between  the  blinded  day  and  blinded  night, 
Between  the  dust  of  life  and  the  dust  of  death. 

Why  shall  I  sit  here?     Why  are  colonnades 

And  little  paths  and  pagan  statuaries 

More  subtly  dear  to  my  unseeing  eyes 

Than  all  the  beaded  letters  of  the  books 

Or  the  coloring  of  any  bended  saint? 

Why  do  I  hear  the  stealing  feet  of  peace 

Among  these  marbles  more  than  anywhere, 

Than  even  in  that  cell  where  I  have  been 

True  Christian  and  exemplar  of  the  creed 

To  my  own  heart?     There,  not  a  cardinal 

In  a  red  pageantry  of  holiness 

Before  all  comers,  but  a  penitent 

In  humble  nakedness  before  my  God, 

I  found  the  potency  of  Jesus  Christ. 

And  yet  not  there  could  peace  be  comforting 

Like  this.     Sometimes  I  think  that  hell  hath  set 

An  outer  court  for  me  within  my  garden, 

That  it  may  mock  me  better  in  its  own  .  .  . 

But,  whether  hell  or  old  mortality, 

This  garden  which  I  builded  for  my  body 

Is  the  one  corner  now  wherein  my  soul 

Finds  rest  and  benediction  in  the  twilight  .  .   . 

There  in  my  cell,  dreamt  on  the  walls,  arise 

Those  memories  of  craft  and  violence, 


Of  lust  for  carven  images  of  beauty: 
How  in  the  night  I  sent  my  men  to  take 
That  obelisk  which  I  had  offered  twice 
Its  value  for  and  been  refused  —  to  bring 
That  obelisk  and  set  it  in  my  garden  .  .  . 

The  Prince  of  Palestrina  never  dared, 
Such  has  my  might  been,  to  recover  it. 
Still  I  can  see  him  gaping  at  the  trick 
And   wishing  he   might   strangle   me,    the   trick 
ster  .  .  . 
And  though  these  useless  eyes  would  make  me 

now 

No  quick  report  if  that  same  obelisk 
Should  be  abstracted  on  a  newer  night, 
Yet  how  these  fingers  and  this  heart  would  know  I 

Why  do  my  tears  fall,  that  I  sit  here  blind 
To   oaks  and  poplars,   fountains  and  my  sculp 
tures, 

Before  my  cypresses  and  Sabine  Hills? 
Have  I  not  seen  them  all  a  thousand  times? 
Are  they  not  vanity?     Can  eyes  outsee 
The  soul?     Life,  to  an  honest  cardinal, 
Old  and  enfeebled,  should  but  celebrate 
The  sacrifice  of  Jesus  Christ  who  died. 
Time  should  grow  short  for  prayer  and  prepara 
tion. 


Why  is  it,  then,  that  life  has  seemed  to  pace 
More  than  enough  its  corridor  of  vigil, 
But  not  to  know  the  endless  path  of  beauty 
Beyond  the  entrance  and  the  mere  beginning! 

Pray  for  us  sinners  now  and  at  the  hour 

Of  death !   .  .  .  And,  even  while  thou  prayest,  I, 

Who  should  incessantly  be  praying  also, 

I  who  am  cardinal  and  might  be  pope, 

Sit  with  my  blind  eyes  full  of  pagan  glory!  — 

Sappho,  Apollo  and  Antinous, 

And  Orpheus  parting  from  Eurydice ! 

First  falls  the  breath  before  the  drop  of  rain  .  .  . 

Before  the  rain  shall  follow,  I  have  strength, 

Praise  God,  still  to  support  myself  among 

These  marble  temples,  columns  and  museums, 

These  deities  of  beauty  and  of  time. 

Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace,  the  Lord  is  with  Thee ! 

The  obelisk  is  here.     It  has  not  been 

Retaken.     Pray  for  us  now  and  at  the  hour 

Of  death.     And  I  shall  enter  at  my  door 

And  seek  the  chimney-piece  and  stand  before 

My  young  Antinous  from  Tivoli 

With  lotus  in  his  hair  and  hands,  who  once 

Belonged  to  Hadrian.     And  I  shall  touch 

Again  the  garment  of  Eurydice, 

Wondering  —  when  that  final  mortal  touch 


Summons  Eurydice,  summons  my  soul, 

And  when  she  turns  and  enters  and  is  dark  — 

If  Christ  shall  follow  her  and  sing  to  her. 


The  Two  Sentinels 

(Under  the  ruins  of  Pompeii  a  barman  has  been 
found  at  his  post) 

"  Soldier,  I  hear  that  you,  as  well  as  I, 

Were  steadfast  on  a  fateful  day: 
While  blind  and  ashen  faces  hurried  by, 
You  watched  the  flaming  rivers  of  the  sky 

Enter  Pompeii. 

I  wonder  at  you,  Soldier.     Tell  me  why 
You  stayed  immovable  and  chose  to  die." 

"  I  trembled,  Barman,  and  I  left  my  post. 

}But  Rome  herself  came  suddenly  to  stand 
Beside  me  in  the  panic  of  that  host 

And  held  me  with  her  sure  imperial  hand." 

"  Rome,  Soldier,  Rome?  Could  even  Rome  defy 
Flame's  roaring  mouth  and  quicken  you  to  die?  — 
Well,  you  had  Rome  to  look  to.  Likewise  I 

—  To  speed  my  city  on  her  way  — 
Opened  a  wine,  a  wine  that  winked  its  eye, 
And  under  that  intolerable  sky 

Drank  to  Pompeii." 

— 23— 


A  Canticle  of  Bacchus 

(The  First  and  Second  Cantors  stand  at  either 
side  of  the  stage.  Bacchus  enters,  conceal 
ing  with  a  vine-draped  arm  all  of  his  face 
below  the  eyes) 

The  First  Cantor 
Why  hide  your  face  with  vines,  lad? 
Why  stand  mysterious? 
Show  your  face  and  tell  us  why 
And  what  you  want  of  us. 
I  wonder  if  I  know  you,  lad. 
I've  seen  your  eyes  before. 
There's  a  glow  in  them  as  genial 
As  an  opening  door 
With  a  yellow  light  behind  it 
And  a  handshake  and  a  song 
And  a  welcome  to  a  fellowship 
Where  happy  folk  belong. 
I  wonder  why  your  presence, 
Half-hidden,  seems  to  be 
The  reaching  of  the  redwoods, 
—24—    • 


The  slipping  of  the  sea 

And  the  swaying  of  the  heart  of  wine 

Within  the  heart  of  me. 

Lad,  are  you  the  merry  god 

Of  vine-leaves? 

Bacchus  (showing  his  face) 

I  am  he. 

Though  not  so  merry  nowadays 
As  I  dared  to  be 
In  the  days  of  Alexander, 
I  am  Bacchus,  I  am  he 
Whom  young  men  choose,  old  wives  chastise 
And  solemn  men  abhor, 
Because  the  truth  is  in  my  eyes, 
Because  my  mother  bore 
A  light  and  easy  soothsayer, 
Natural  and  wild, 
Fierce  and  happy  as  the  sun, 
When  Bacchus  was  her  child. 
I  stole  the  grapes  from  her  other  hand, 
She  pretended  not  to  look, 
And  the  heat  of  my  fingers  turned  them  to  wine 
And  that  was  the  milk  I  took, 
Till  I  grew  and  flourished  and  became 
The  most  beloved  boy 
Who  ever  danced  among  the  leaves 
Of  elemental  joy. 

—25— 


And  everybody  laughed  my  name 

And  pulse  was  never  quicker 

Than  when  the  unforbidden  hills 

Blessed  the  world  with  liquor 

And  everybody  drank  it 

And  everybody  knew 

Festival-hymns  and  holiday-tunes  .  .  . 

The  First  Cantor 

Here  are  singers  too !  — 

"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow — " 

Sing  to  him  —  all  of  you ! 

The  Company  (singing  and  concluding) 
"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
Which  nobody  can  deny." 

Bacchus 

And  how  can  a  jolly  good  fellow 

Bear  to  say  good-bye? 

O  let  me  pledge  you  in  a  drink 

Before  I  hide  my  face ! 

The  Second  Cantor  (refusing  the  proffered  cup) 
No,  thank  you.     You  have  earned  too  well 
Your  measure  of  disgrace. 

Bacchus 

And  who  are  you  who  will  not  drink? 
— 26— 


Silenus  (entering  eagerly) 
By  the  gods,  I'll  take  his  cup ! 

The  First  Cantor 

He's  a  tale-telling  teetotaller. 

Silenus 

A  meddler  and  a  pup  ! 

The  Second  Cantor  (to  Bacchus,  indicating  Site- 

nus) 

Look  well  at  him,  if  you  wonder  why 
I  spurn  what  you  propose  — 
At  the  purple  viney  pattern 
Of  the  veining  of  his  nose ! 
He  followed  you  and  the  dryads, 
He  dreamed  a  dream  in  his  youth, 
And  his  house  has  tumbled  about  him 
In  ashes  —  that's  the  truth ! 

Silenus 

What  do  I  want  of  houses 

While  a  cave  holds  off  a  storm? 

And  what  do  I  want  of  a  hearthstone 

While  there's  wine  to  keep  me  warm? 

The  Second  Cantor 

You  had  a  wife  who  pleaded, 

With  children  at  her  knees ! 

Silenus 

My  wife  was  like  Xantippe, 
—27— 


Who  scolded  Socrates 

When  he  went  the  way  of  drinking  men 

With  Alcibiades  — 

When  he  went  the  way  of  thinking  men 

And  dodged  the  homely  pot, 

As  I  have  dodged  the  missiles 

Of  the  whole  confounded  lot. 

Sir,  can  you  quote  me  wisdom 

From  men  who  never  tipple 

That  has  made  a  stir  in  the  world  like  his? 

No,  sir  —  not  a  ripple  !  — 

So  here's  to  poets,  philosophers, 

By  all  the  seven  seas, 

Greek,  Roman,  Gallic,  British,  Dutch 

And  Persian  and  Chinese ! 

Though  it  double  me  rheumatic  — 

Here's  to  Socrates! 

Bacchus 

You  it  is,  with  disregard 
Of  measure  and  time  and  place, 
Who  have  brought  on  both  of  us  this  day 
Of  exile  and  disgrace, 
Yet,  Silenus,  you're  forgiven, 
For  I'd  rather  live  in  a  hut 
Away  from  all  my  friends  but  you 
Than  have  had  you  learn  to  shut 
A  virtuous  mouth  like  a  trap  for  birds 
—28— 


And  a  fist  like  a  purse  for  squeeze  — 
You've  an  open  mouth  and  hand  and  heart, 
And  they  have  none  of  these. 

The  Second  Cantor 
Are  you  meaning  me  ? 

Bacchus 

Yes,  even  you, 
Too  careful  to  be  bold. 
Before  you  take  a  step,  you  look, 
Before  you're  young,  you're  old. 
Before  you  think  in  your  own  terms, 
You  think  in  other  people's 
And  stilt  your  life  as  orderly 
As  pulpits  and  as  steeples. 
What  can  the  ocean  mean  to  you, 
Draining  the  shore, 

And  the  wind  that  drinks  the  redwoods 
And  waves  its  arms  for  more, 
And  the  dogs  that  romp  in  the  flowers, 
And  the  cats  that  sing  in  the  alleys, 
And  the  skylarks  in  the  zenith, 
And  the  waterfalls  in  the  valleys? 
In  this  happy,  crooked,  drunken  world 
How  you  can  bid  us  go 
As  dry  as  dust  and  as  straight  as  a  corpse 
To  a  graveyard,  I  don't  know. 


-29- 


The  Second  Cantor 

Do  the  dogs  and  the  cats  and  the  skylarks 

Need  booze  to  make  them  gay? 

Silenus 

What  about  cats  and  catnip? 

Bacchus 

Men  need  more  than  they !  .  .  . 

0  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge 
Was  a  liquor  on  the  tree  — 

And  when  they  chose  the  apple, 
Adam  and  Eve  chose  me ! 
And  the  children  of  Jehovah, 
As  well  as  the  children  of  Zeus, 
Were  the  better  for  their  knowledge 
When  the  godhead  turned  them  loose. 
For  there's  nothing  so  sure  as  freedom 
To  make  the  heart  rejoice. 
The  happiness  of  manhood, 
The  guerdon  of  life  —  is  choice ! 
And  a  road  that  is  rough  is  smoother, 
So  be  it  the  road  you  choose, 
Than  a  smooth  road  chosen  for  you 
Where  what  you  win  you  lose  .  .  . 

1  am  a  godly  companion, 
A  touchstone  and  a  test, 

And  who  chooses  with  the  other  gods 
—30— 


Bacchus  —  chooses  best. 

For  what  is  life  itself  but  wine, 

And  what  am  I  but  life? 

And  they  who  cut  our  kinship 

Use  a  deadly  knife. 

And  even  he  who,  reckless, 

Comes  too  close  to  a  god 

Is  wiser  than  he  who  numbers  his  bones 

To  fertilize  the  sod  .  .  . 

Hear  the  truth  from  Bacchus  — 

My  blood  is  spring  in  the  veins, 

And  he  who  would  deny  the  spring 

Shall  perish  for  his  pains  .  .  . 

Silenus 

There's  a  place  in  the  woods  where  wild  apples 

grow 

And  the  feet  of  young  Bacchus  shall  tread  them, 
And  if  venturers  find  us,  they'll  ask  us  when  they 

go 

What  nectar  it  is  we  have  fed  them. 
We  shall  hew  a  rock-hollow  and  seal  it  with  clay 
And  mark  it  with  Bacchus's  fillet  — 
Wild  honey  and  attar  of  roses  and  hay 
Shall  sweeten  our  wine  and  distill  it. 

Bacchus  (moving  slowly  away  with  Silenus) 
There  where  the  sun  sets,  winey  in  the  mountains, 
There  where  the  moon  uplifts  her  frosty  cup, 


Bacchus  shall  come  and  free  the  merry  fountains 

And  drink  the  winter  down  and  the  springtide  up. 

And  a  welcome  shall  well  there  for  fortunate  com 
panions, 

From  Silenus  or  from  Bacchus,  whichever  you  pre 
fer. 

We  shall  crown  you  and  lead  you  through  the  wild- 
grape  canyons 

And  comfort  you  with  apples  and  laugh  at  the  cur 

Who  would  harry  at  your  heels  and  snarl  <  the 
woods  about  you, 

We  shall  hear  him  faintly  barking  beyond  the 
happy  peaks. 

Exile  is  sweet  when  fools  are  left  without  you 

And  the  wild  wine  of  wisdom  is  the  color  in  your 
cheeks. 

You  may  learn  there  of  nature,  as  Bacchus  has 
learned, 

How  hemlock  is  deadlier  than  grapes  are  to  quaff, 

Or  if  you  never  find  us,  or  have  left  us  and  re 
turned, 

You  still  shall  hear  us  echoing  the  sound  of  your 
laugh  .  .  . 

So  remember  us  and  praise  us,  though  the  time  be 

long, 
And  sing  a  song  of  other  days  when  Bacchus  came 

and  went. 

—32— 


And  so  the  heart  of  Bacchus  shall  be  happy  in  your 
song 

And  the  foot  of  Bacchus  steal  within  your  tent. 

For  you  who  once  have  known  me  never  can  for 
get  me. 

Your  other  friends  are  mortal,  Bacchus  is  divine. 

Now  for  a  little  while  evil  days  beset  me  .  .  . 

But  sing  me  into  exile  "  for  auld  lang  syne  " ! 

The  Company  (singing,  as  Bacchus  and  Silenus 

leave  them) 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 
"  And  never  brought  to  mind, 
"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 
"  And  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne?  " 

(Even  the  Second  Cantor  joining,  with  a  cup) 
"  For  auld  lang  syne,  my  boys, 
"  For  auld  lang  syne, 
'  We'll  take  a  cup  and  drink  it  up, 
'  To  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne." 


— 33- 


Vintage 

The  vintage-feast  in  Vevey  came 

Ten  years  ago  today, 
Led  by  a  lad  clear  as  a  flame, 
Bacchus  in  garb,  Bacchus  in  name, 
A  boy  whose  body  was  his  fame 
When  the  vintage-feast  in  Vevey  came 

Ten  years  ago  today. 

Marble  of  limb  but  with  melting  eye, 

Human  and  warm  and  young, 
He  passed  the  village  maidens  by 
Who  could  not  help  themselves  but  spy, 
Some  openly,  some  secretly, 
His  laughing  lip,  his  half-clad  thigh 
Moving  free  and  young  .  .  . 

In  Vevey  comes  the  vintage-feast 

And  Bacchus  comes  today 
A  newer  youth  with  the  orient  east 
At  his  temples,  an  auroral  priest  — 
Dogged  by  a  riotous  lurching  beast, 
The  Bacchus  of  that  other  feast 

Ten  years  ago  today. 
— 34— 


Point  Bonita 

The  little  launch  was  called  The  Monk 

That  carried  him  to  sea 
With  seven  cronies,  not  one  drunk 

But  sober  as  could  be: 

Blight,  Wilson,  Scott,  two  Petersons, 

Stevens,  McPherson,  seven, 
And  they  were  hearty  sons-of-guns 

With  strange  ideas  of  heaven. 

"  The  best  saloon  on  the  water-front 
Was  Johnson's,  called  '  The  Hold.' 

Pete  Johnson  was  the  reason  on't." 
And  then  the  cronies  told 

How  they  all  had  sat  at  Johnson's  place, 

Less  than  a  month  before, 
And  seen  a  look  in  Peter's  face 

When  he  cleared  his  throat  and  swore 

That  he  wouldn't  last  another  moon, 
For  he  felt  it  in  his  bones  — 
— 35— 


"  Boys,"  he  had  said,  "  I'll  be  going  out  soon, 
And  these'll  be  cold  as  stones, 

"  This  left  hand  looking  now  so  stout, 

Lifting  the  glass  for  a  clink, 
And  this  right  hand  which  I  hand  about 

As  I  ask  you  boys  to  drink, 

"  To  drink  me  a  pledge  and  a  solemn  vow 

By  all  the  gods  there  are 
That  you'll  bottle  my  ashes  and  stand  in  the 
bow 

And  scatter  me  over  the  bar. 

"  I've  leaned  on  a  bar  at  sea  and  ashore 

So  long  that  I've  got  the  trick; 
To  be  anywhere  else  for  evermore  — 

The  idea  makes  me  sick." 

On  Peter's  brow  was  a  line  of  sweat. 

"  Fishes  are  quick  and  free; 
But  worms  with  their  crawlin',  pokin'  fret  — 

O  keep  'em  off  o'  me ! 

"  Give  me  no  solid,  cloggin'  grave, 

But  the  width  and  the  drift  o'  the  seas !  — 

Bury  me  out  where  wind  and  wave 
And  ashes  go  as  they  please ! 

—36- 


"  Oblige  me  ?  "  he  asked  them.     And  like  one 

man, 

Quicker  than  a  wink, 
They   said,    "  Aye,    Peter, —  a    damn   good 

plan!"— 
And  pledged  it  with  a  drink  .  .  . 

It  stormed  from  the  Saturday  Peter  died 

Till  the  cronies  came  together 
And  looked  at  the  jug  with  Pete  inside, 

Then  looked  outside  at  the  weather. 

And  when  they  had  watched  the  gale  three 
days, 

They  nodded,  though  it  blew, 
"  We  can't  sit  round  till  the  jug  decays  — 

Let's  see  old  Peter  through!  " 

They  took  the  jug  aboard  The  Monk, 

They  put  their  oilskins  on, 
They  faced  the  sousing  sea  —  not  drunk, 

Sober  every  one. 

A  wave  came  over  them  half  way  out 
And  slapped  them  down  in  the  sea 

And  all  but  two  of  them  went  to  the  bout 
Bailing,  hip  and  knee, — 
—37— 


Two  at  the  helm  and  five  of  them 

Bailing,  one  with  a  mug  .  .  . 
When  The  Monk  went  crazy  and  shook  her 
stem, 

They'd  catch  a  quick  look  at  the  jug, 

Where  old  Pete  Johnson  urged  them  on 

And  gave  them  extra  breath, 
Just  as  if  he  hadn't  gone, 

As  if  it  wasn't  death. 

And    at    last,    when    the    mourners    pulled 
around, 

With  The  Monk  for  a  pitching  hearse, 
And  —  close  off  Point  Bonita  —  found 

The  chapter  and  the  verse, 

Stevens,  McPherson,  Wilson,  Blight, 

Scott  and  the  Petersons, 
Bared  their  heads  and  stood  as  they  might 

While  the  sea  went  by  like  guns, 

And  Peter  Johnson  flew  over  the  bow 
And  was  scattered  away  in  the  foam. 

And  they  wished  him  as  well  as  they  knew 

how 
Before  they  put  for  home  .  .  . 

-38- 


Now  the  wind  was  lighter  going  back, 

But  the  course  was  heavier  far, 
For  the  mate  of  the  trip,  out  on  their  track, 

Was  leaning  again  on  a  bar  .  .  . 

And  as  soon  as  they  might,  in  Peter's  place, 
They  leaned  on  a  bar  as  well  — 

And  looked  each  other  in  the  face; 
And  when  they  drank  his  knell, 

Blight,  Stevens,  the  Petersons,  Wilson,  Scott, 
McPherson,  crew  of  The  Monk, 

Each  sober  crony  of  the  lot 

With  just  one  drink  —  was  drunk. 


— 39— 


Look  in  the  Water 

Look  in  the  water  and  tell  me  quick 

Who  is  the  girl  I  see 

Where  the  grasses  are  wavy  and  bright  and  thick 
And  the  shells  and  the  pebbles  play  their  trick 

Of  winking  winks  at  me ! 

Doesn't  the  water  make  her  sick? 

How  long  her  hair  has  grown  I 
She  turns  like  a  little  green  worm  on  a  stick. 
Is  it  really  a  girl?     O  tell  me  quick! 

She  moves  her  head  on  a  stone  .  .  . 

Or  is  it  a  fish  with  the  wonderful  face 

All  fishes  wish  they  had? 
For  her  feet  are  done  up  in  spangles  of  lace 
As  tightly  tied  as  the  narrow  place 

Is  tied  on  the  tail  of  a  shad. 

A  wave  goes  rippling  over  her  eye 
And  she  calls,  "  O  Little  Friend, 
I  have  watched  the  waves  of  the  sea  go  by 
—40— 


And  ships  go  down  and  sailors  die, 
New  sailors  without  end. 

"  I  have  watched  them  all,  but  by  and  by 

Somewhere  they  all  go  down 
And  sail  no  more;  while  here  am  I 
Breathing  forever  the  sea  and  sky 

And  wishing  that  I  could  drown, 

"  Wishing  that  I  could  take  your  place 

And  grow  up  big  and  tall, 
Then  die  and  change  — "     Look,  there's  a  race 
Of  minnows,  a  flash  goes  over  her  face  — 

And  nothing  is  there  at  all. 


Romance 

What  and  where  am  I  and  who? 
I  can  never  tell.     Can  you? 
Can  a  sunset  after  rain 
Or  a  moonlit  wave  explain, 
Can  a  willow  tell  you  why 
Or  a  star?     No  more  can  I. 

Follow  me  in  any  face 
To  some  far  and  lovely  place. 
If  you  find  me,  be  content. 
Never  ask  me  where  I  went 
Seven  moons  ago  nor  when 
I  intend  to  come  again. 

Am  I  foolish?     Am  I  wise? 
Never  ask  me  to  advise. 
Ask  a  hawk  about  his  wings, 
Ask  a  robin  why  he  sings, 
Ask  a  tree  to  be  a  city, 
Ask  of  me  to  pause  and  pity. 

—42— 


Who  is  shiftier  than  I? 
I  can  go  without  good-bye. 
I  can  come  without  your  leave, 
Come  to  comfort  when  you  grieve. 
Ask  of  me  to  stay  or  go, 
Will  I  once  obey  you  ?     No ! 

I  am  nowhere,  somewhere  near. 
I  am  no  one,  someone  dear, 
I  am  cruel,  I  am  kind, 
I  am  all  there  is  to  find  .  .  . 
What  am  I  and  where  and  who? 
I  am  heaven.     I  am  you. 


—43' 


Property 


I  have  an  endless  garden  .  .  .  and  I  don't  know 
where  it  is, 

For  I  found  and  lost  the  title  in  a  castle  in  Ca 
diz. 

There  are  many  little  garden-gates,  creaking  like 
gulls, 

And  a  sea  full  of  ships  there,  with  gold  on  their 
hulls  .  .  . 

But  why  so  many  ships  and  why  so  many  gates, 

Only  my  lost  title-deed  in  Cadiz  relates. 

I  have  the  tallest  tower  there  that  ever  touched 
the  blue, 

But  since  I  don't  know  where  it  is,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  ... 

For  I  went  there  in  a  dream  once,  a  wild  way 
faring, 

Glad  and  magnificent  beyond  all  caring  .  .  . 

I  wish  I  had  the  reason  now  that  then  I  had 

For  being  so  magnificent  and  being  so  glad. 

But  who  knows  the  measure  of  the  distance  to 
fare?  — 

I  hurried  back  to  Cadiz.     The  castle  wasn't  there. 

— 44— 


They  told  me  that  a  mist  had  come  and  arrows  of 
rain 

And  then  a  gust  of  darkness  —  and  every  window- 
pane 

And  doorway  of  the  castle  had  vanished  in  Ca 
diz  ... 

And  what  can  you  do  with  property,  when  you 
don't  know  where  it  is  ? 


—45— 


Vagrant 


I  come  and  go 

And  never  stay, 

I  pick  and  choose 

A  night,  a  day, 

I  find,  I  lose, 

I  laugh  along, 

I  will  not  know 

Right  things  from  wrong. 

I  pity  those 
Who  pity  me, 
I  ask  no  boon 
But  being  free  — 
And  so  the  moon, 
My  polished  stone, 
Shines  and  shows 
I  lie  alone. 


Gipsying 


A  gipsy-hand  beckoned, 
My  pulses  went  hot 
And  I  said,  "  O  be  happy, 
Be  reckless!     Why  not?" 
So  I  ran  like  the  devil, 
I  laughed  like  the  deuce, 
I  was  happy  awhile  .  .  . 
But  at  last  —  what's  the  use? 

The  gipsying  ended, 
The  joy  of  it  went, 
And  nothing  was  left 
But  a  three-cornered  rent 
In  the  knee  of  my  trouser 
Where,  solemn,  forlorn 
And  repenting  to  heaven, 
I  knelt  on  a  thorn. 


—47— 


Fire-Music 

Sparrow  in  the  burning  birch, 
Ghost  who  once  at  set  of  sun 
Whistled  in  your  home  and  church  - 
Though  you  see  it  now  undone, 

Yet  with  your  memorial  mirth 
You  can  sing  like  a  caress, 
"  Never  shall  a  bit  of  earth 
Die  and  change  to  nothingness!" 

Spirit  in  me !  —  when  I  die, 
Will  you  laugh  with  equal  glee?  — 
Will  you  whistle,  where  I  lie, 
Something  of  the  sort  for  me  ? 


Sweet  Chariot 

I  sat  one  night  and  I  said  to  the  moon, 

Come  down  over  the  foam, 
Come  on,  my  chariot,  swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 

Coming  for  to  carry  me  home ! 

And  the  moon  swung  low,  and  the  moon  swung 
low, 

And  the  moon  swung  down  the  sea, 
Swung  down,  that  chariot,  low,  that  chariot, 

But  never  did  come  for  me. 

But  the  earth  came  on,  the  earth  came  on, 

Came  swinging  up  the  sky  — 
I  know  my  chariot,  the  earth  my  chariot ! 

Sweet  chariot,  swing  high ! 


-49— 


Chieftains 


Not  the  first  growth  of  spruce  and  pine 

Nor  the  second  nor  the  third 
Was  what  I  saw  in  ordered  line 

And  what  at  night  I  heard. 

But  often  when  old  light  would  hold 

Their  shadows  in  the  lake 
While  the  sun  would  sink  with  dreams  untold 

And  a  first  faint  star  would  break, 

I  watched  them  come  to  the  water's  edge, 

Leading  a  vanished  race, 
Warrior-chiefs  from  wood  and  ledge 

And  undiscovered  place ; 

I  saw  them  stand,  each  feathered  head 

Unmoving  and  unmoved, 
The  captains  of  a  people  dead 

Which  first  had  fought  and  loved. 

—50— 


Then  in  the  night  I  heard  the  air 

Stir  with  a  moving  line, 
Till  in  the  dawn  were  standing  there 

Hemlock  and  spruce  and  pine. 


From  Sea 

Clear  as  a  leaf  of  fern 
Against  a  crystal  sky, 
Over  the  trailing  stern 
Hovers  a  butterfly. 

Half-seen  to  southward  sink 
Sails  that  only  now 
Began,  at  the  northern  brink, 
Half-seen  to  lift  their  bow. 

Westward  a  fishing-fleet 
Is  anchored,  dark  of  hull, 
Eastward,  in  retreat, 
Circles  a  single  gull. 

Not  anywhere  is  land, 
But  under  a  soft  sun 
Peace  is  near  at  hand, 
Simple  and  vast  and  one. 


—52— 


Master  of  Moons 

Along  the  Havana  wharves  was  a  sugar-train  — 
And  an  iron  black,  unloading  bags  from  it, 
His  torso  bare,  with  valleys  of  wet  muscle, 
His  rhythm  sure  as  that  of  tigers  pacing. 
And  across  from  the  car  was  a  house  of  many 

women, 

Two  of  them  quarrelling,  a  black  with  a  yellow, 
And  the  little  yellow  woman  swung  her  palm 
Against  the  black  cheek  of  her  adversary 
Who,  towering  massive  as  a  mountain-side, 
Let  loose  an  avalanche  of  angry  might. 
And  they  fought  and  blazed,  and  each  of  them 

tore  off 

The  other's  only  garment,  whirling  in  bronze, 
Till  out  from  the  sugar-car  black  waters  leapt 
And  lifted  the  giantess  to  a  naked  shoulder 
Like  a  great  log  along  a  stream  at  midnight 
And  carried  her  away  into  the  distance. 


— 53— 


In  Havana 

I  never  saw  your  face, 
But  I  saw  you  every  night 
Lean  in  the  self-same  place 
Against  the  waning  light. 

There  on  your  roof  of  the  town 
You  would  come  out,  like  me, 
To  watch  the  sun  go  down 
Beyond  the  sea. 

And  into  my  towered  place 
I  would  climb  up,  like  you, 
I  never  saw  your  face, 
I  never  needed  to. 


—54- 


Haskell 

Here  in  Kansas  is  a  school 

Made  of  square  stones  and  windows, 

Where  Indian  boys  are  taught  to  use  a  tool, 

A  printing-press,  a  book, 

And  Indian  girls 

To  read,  to  dress,  to  cook. 

And  as  I  watch  today 

The  orderly  industrious  classes, 

Only  their  color  and  silence  and  the  way 

The  hair  lies  flat  and  black  on  their  heads  pro 
claims  them  Sioux, 

Comanche,  Choctaw,  Cherokee, 

Creek,  Chippewa,  Paiute  —  and  the  red  and  blue 

Of  the  girls'  long  sweaters  and  the  purple  and 
yellow, 

And  the  tawny  slant  of  the  machine-made 
shirts  .  .  . 

Noon  —  and  out  they  come.    And  one  tall  fellow, 
Breaking  from  the  others  with  a  glittering  yell 

and  crouching  slim, 
Gives  a  leap  like  the  leap  of  Mordkin, 
—55— 


And  the  sun  carves  under  him 
A  canyon  of  glory  .  .  . 
And  then  it  shadows,  and  he  darts, 
With  head  hung,  to  the  dormitory. 


—56- 


Pittsburgh 


Coming  upon  it  unawares, 

A  town  of  men  and  millionaires, 

A  town  of  coal-dust  and  of  churches, 

I  thought  of  moons,  I  thought  of  birches, 

Goals  forgotten  in  the  faces 

Of  the  swift  who  run  the  races, 

Whip-poor-wills  and  misty  meadows, 

Musk-rats  in  the  river-shadows, 

Robins  whistling  five  o'clock, 

Mornings  naked  on  a  rock. 


—57— 


The  Patricians 

There  is  a  cold  and  admirable  breed  of  men 

Who  exercise,  between  the  poor  and  God, 

An  overseer's  authority  conferred 

By  the  great  Landlord.     And  their  ken 

Is  constant,  for  they  have  themselves  in  mind. 

They  guard  God's  money  and  are  stirred 

By   the   extent   of   His   abundance.     They   have 

heard 
His  voice   incorporating  Heaven,   where   people 

blessed 

With  means  may  venture  to  invest. 
Not  the  abrupt  corrupting  kind, 
Using  their  power  to  pile  a  Pittsburgh  den 
With  plunder,  these,  in  their  gentler  way, 
Fifth  Avenue,  North  Side,  Back  Bay, 
Are  the  Patricians.     Stewards  for  the  rest, 
They  hide  their  talent  lest  they  lose  it,  bind 
Their  sight  with  silken  bands  and,  self-possessed 
Because  they  dream  themselves  preferred 
Above  the  eccentric  friendships,  vulgar,  odd, 
Of  a  Millionaire  whose  merest  interest 

-58- 


Is  more  than  all  their  capital  combined, 
They  make  their  wives  invite  Him  as  a  guest, 
"  O  don't  forget  to  ask  that  fellow,  God!  " 


—59— 


The  Two  Thieves 

I  like  the  thief  who's  an  honest  thief, 
Who  can  steal  and  wink  and  laugh, 

Whose  eye  is  clear  and  his  grin  is  bold 
For  friend  or  photograph. 

But  set  me  a  thousand  miles  away 
From  the  unconditioned  crook 

Who  can  pry  into  his  neighbors'  prayers 
And  steal  a  pious  look ! 


-60 — 


The  Tree 

Still  are  we  soldier,  Gentile,  Jew, 

And  hear  Him  praying  low, 
"  Father,  they  know  not  what  they  do! 

Except  that  now  we  know 

Which  are  the  thieves  and  which  is  He, 
And,  every  day  of  the  year, 

We  bind  him  not  with  rope  on  the  tree, 
But  with  nail  and  thorn  and  spear. 


—6 1— 


A  Dead  One 

All  night  I  walk  the  street, 

Hearing  the  newsboys  shout  .  .  . 
My  soul,  my  body  and  my  feet, 

I  cart  the  things  about, 
But  any  fellow  that  I  meet 

Can  see  I'm  down  and  out. 

The  end!     I  know  it  too 
And  don't  care  very  much, 

For  I  have  lost  my  point  of  view 
Of  hell  and  heaven  and  such, 

And  am  losing  now  —  some  of  us  do 
Memory,  even  touch. 

A  boy  too  hot  to  bide, 

A  friendly  kid,  well-made, 

Stopped  me  the  other  night  and  tried 
A  sample  of  my  trade. 

But  I  just  felt  myself  outside, 
Walking  —  till  he  paid. 

— 62— 


The  other  night,  I  said? 

No,  it  was  long  ago. 
Time  runs  like  a  squirrel  in  my  head, 

Swift  but  somehow  slow. 
I  wait  —  and  wonder  am  I  dead 

Or  dancing  in  a  show. 

I'll  find  out  good  and  quick 
When  I  take  tomorrow's  beat. 

To  face  the  wharves  ought  to  make  me  sick, 
Where  drunks  and  dead  ones  meet. 

But  it  doesn't.      I'll  soon  learn  the  trick, 
And  it'll  ease  my  feet. 

I'm  forgetting  the  face  of  my  first, 

My  star  of  Bethlehem, 
The  first  I  ever  kissed  and  cursed, 

Clem  was  his  name,  yes,  Clem. 
Two  others  gripped  me  like  a  thirst  .   .  . 

And  I  can't  remember  them. 

And  that's  the  way  it  goes. 

Something  has  snapped  inside. 
Those  three?  —  when  I'm  forgetting  those, 

I  guess  my  soul  has  died  — 
And  I  might  have  kept  it,  held  it  close, 

Sung  to  it  when  it  cried. 

-63- 


The  Army  drums  away. 

They  want  me  to  enroll. 
It's  not  too  late  for  them,  they  say, — 

Jesus  will  make  me  whole. 
He  had  his  chance.     But  he  wouldn't  pay 

Five  dollars  for  my  soul. 


A  Fortune-Teller 

Turning  the  secrets  from  her  pack  of  cards, 
Warning  of  sickness,  tracing  out  a  theft, 
Guarding  from  danger  as  an  omen  guards, 
Her  hand  grew  withered  as  it  grew  more  deft  .  . 

Till  in  the  stuffy  parlor  where  she  lies, 

Now  to  these  clients,  neighbors,  debtors,  friends, 

Truest  is  proven  of  her  prophecies, 

"  I  shall  be  dead  before  December  ends." 

That  old  man,  facing  us,  who  many  years 
Carried  the  marvellous  message  of  her  art, 
Now  hear  him  how  he  tells  us  with  his  tears 
The  simpler  larger  wisdom  of  her  heart. 

For  she  was  quick  to  share  the  good  that  came, 
So  that  young  mothers  turned  at  last  and  slept 
And  loafers  gruffly  reverenced  her  name  — 
Yet  more  than  all  she  gave  away  she  kept, 

Kept  red  geraniums  on  her  window-sill 
And  a  gay  garden  in  that  narrow  plot 


Fenced-in  behind  her  house.     You'll  find  there 

still 
Her  hoe,  her  rake,  her  rusty  watering-pot. 

Bright,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  dingy  yards, 
Her  roses,  hollyhocks  and  pansies  grew; 
As  if  some  happy  jester  in  the  cards 
Whispered  the  gayest  secret  that  he  knew. 


— 66— 


The  Man  with  the  Testament 

The  Passer-by 

Put  that  away,  don't  whine  at  me  with  that, 

I'll  give  you  something  if  you'll  quit  your  bluff. 

The  Man  with  the  Testament 

No,  honest,  Mister',  by  this  book  I  live, 

It's  food  and  drink  to  me,  this  little  book. 

I  haven't  any  overcoat,  but  warmth 

Comes  in  my  pocket  from  my  Testament. 

Honest  to  God,  my  Saviour  warms  my  soul, 

Also  my  body,  like  a  miracle. 

It's  food  and  drink  to  me,  this  little  book. 

I'm  like  a  blind  man  and  it  leads  me  round. 

The  Passer-by 

It's  what  you  live  on,  yes.     You  know  your  game, 
The  kind  of  fools  you  meet  and  how  to  fetch  'em. 
Put  it  away.     Take  this  and  get  a  drink. 
There's  quicker  warmth  in  alcohol,  old  man. 

The  Man  with  the  Testament 

Now,  sir,  you're  talking  and  I  guess  you're  white. 


But,  God,  the  Bible  catches  'em !     I  thought 
It  out  one  night.     The  Gospel  says  the  poor 
Is  here  for  keeps.     You  see,  that  pleases  those 
As  has  good  money  and  their  neighbours  none. 
They're  glad  to  pay  me  something  when  I  say 
That  Christ  has  taught  me  to  be  satisfied, 
It  kind  of  eases  'em  along  their  way. 
It's  food  and  drink  to  me,  this  little  book. 

The  Passer-by 

Use  it,  old  man,  use  it  for  all  it's  worth. 

A  better  use  is  coming  by  and  by 

From   that   same   book,   but  you'll   be   dead  by 

then. — 

Remember  that  he  said,  "  Give  us  our  bread," 
Before  he  said,  "  Forgive  our  trespasses." 

The  Man  with  the  Testament 
You're  white,  you  are.     So  let  me  tell  you  this. 
I  was  an  acrobat.     I  went  with  a  show 
Seventeen  years.     I  fell  and  hurt  my  spine, 
I  couldn't  do  my  business  any  more. 
Tumbling  was  all  I  knew,  I'd  worked  at  it 
So  long.     I  always  hoped  I'd  work  at  it 
Again.     And  while  I  waited  round  to  see, 
I  drank  a  bit.     The  drink  got  hold  of  me  — 
And  here  I  am,  sir,  with  my  Testament. 

— 68— 


The  Passer-by 

What  do  you  live  for?     What's  ahead  of  you? 

What  makes  you  want  to  keep  on  going,  old  man? 

The  Man  with  the  Testament 

I'm  always  hoping  something  will  turn  up 

To  put  me  back  again  where  I  belong. 

And  if  it  don't,  I've  got  a  job  all  right, 

A  job  they  can't  take  from  me.     Listen  here, 

There's  fellows,  young  ones,  coming  out  of  jobs, 

Joining  the  bread-line,  and  I  talk  to  'em, 

Tell  'em  my  story,  how  a  man  can  work 

Seventeen  years  and  then  be  left  like  this. 

And  that's  my  job,  to  make  'em  discontent, 

Me  that  Christ  teaches  to  be  satisfied. 

I  am.      My  job's  a  job  worth  living  for. 

Something  may  come  of  it  when  men  like  me 

Has  thought  enough  and  made  the  young  ones 

think. 

Thank  you,  I'll  take  it  if  you'll  let  me  buy 
One  drink  apiece  for  us?  —  Here's  how,  young 

man! 


—69— 


The  End  of  the  Road 

There's  always  lots  of  fussin'  on  a  farm, 

Summer  'n'  winter, 

Leastwise  I've  found  it  so. 

But  I  go  about  when  I  c'n  get  a  chance, 

To  'Scutneyville  or,  like  last  week,  to  Windsor 

Where  I  heard  the  band,  a  darn  good  band  .  .  . 

The  town  o'  Windsor  pays  'em  for  the  season 

Three  hundred  dollars  — 

Pretty  fair  pay  for  sittin'  still  an'  tootin'. 

Most  of  'em  work  regular  in  the  machine-shop, 

Over  a  thousand  hands  where  there  used  to  be  five 
hundred. 

An'  takin'  all  the  boys  that's  come  with  the  boom, 
there's  lots  of  talent. 

What  was  I  sayin'  ?     O  yes,  the  river-road 

An'  all  the  roads  that  lead  to  any  place, 

I  know  'em  well  .  .  . 

But  there's  a  road,  a  little  pesky  road, 

That  starts  off  toward  Ascutney,  toward  the  moun 
tain, 

An'  nobody  I  hear  of  ever  took  it  more'n  four 
miles  back, 

—TO— 


Where  a  house  was  once, 

An'  they  only  use  it  now  to  reach  a  mowin'. 

But  all  my  life  I've  meant  to  see  the  end  on't, 

Not  that  there's  any  use  o'  seein'  it, 

But  just  to  satisfy  a  kind  o'  notion  for  seein1  where 

things  go. 
I  wa'n't  more'n  six  years  old  first  time  I  went  to 

take  that  road. 
But  I  found  a  berry-patch. 
And  since  that  time  I've  allus  meant  to  go  on 
An'  never  have  .  .  . 
Till  1915  June  the  2yth  I  got  aroun'  to  it. 
The  rest  of  'em  went  drivin'  somewhere  else.     I 

footed  it. 

An'  when  I  fetched  up  at  the  turn 
An  automobile  come  by 
And  someone  hollered,  "  Where  does  that  road 

go?" 

I  said,  u  I've  lived  here  all  my  life 
An'  it  ain't  gone  anywhere." 
They  thought  I'd  said  a  terrible  funny  thing, 
But  it  wa'n't  so  blame  funny  .  .  . 
Well,  sir,  I  walked  a  little  piece  o'  that  darn  road, 
Till  the  sun  turned  on  so  doggone  swelterin' 
That  I'd  'a'  been  a  fool  not  to  go  home 
An'  lay  down  quiet  in  the  hammock. 
When  a  man  gets  a  chance  to  loaf,  what  does  he 

want  to  foot  it  up  a  hill  for? 
—77— 


That  was  all  right,  but  what  do  you  think  has  hap 
pened? 

What  do  you  suppose  I  read  in  Monday's  paper? 
I  read  about  myself  an'  what  I  said. 
They  didn't  give  my  name,  an'  that's  a  comfort, 
For  I  don't  like  gettin'  into  newspapers. 
But  who  do  you  think  was  in  that  automobile  ?  — 
The  President!  — 
Mebbe  he  has  a  kind  o'  notion,  too, 
The  same  as  me, 
For  seein'  where  things  go  ... 
I  kind  o'  wish  I  hadn't  turned  back  home, 
No,  not  because  he  asked  me,  not  for  that, 
But  just  to  satisfy  a  kind  o'  notion 
That's  bothered  me  since  I  was  six  years  old. 


—72— 


A  Song  in  the  Grass 


Sometimes  I  wish  the  day  might  pause 
And  not  become  the  night, 
Or  I  wish  the  night  might  have  no  cause 
To  interchange  with  light. 

Some  nights  I  wish  the  day  might  break, 
Some  days  I  crave  a  star, — 
But  mostly  I  have  learned  to  take 
The  moments  as  they  are. 


— 73— 


A  Red-Wing 

Cluck  and  hover,  cluck  and  whine, 

Whose  step  so  disturbs  you?     Mine? 

Why  not  cover  and  dissemble 

All  this  trouble,  all  this  tremble? 

Why  not  calmly  let  me  be 

With  caraway  and  timothy, 

Let  me  pass  and  never  see 

Black  and  scarlet  in  the  sun? 

Or  can  men  like  me  have  done 

Harm  to  birdlings?     Is  that  why 

You  hang  and  flutter,  dart  and  cry? 

Or  is  it  humor  in  your  breast, 

Is  your  flurry  all  a  jest 

Of  cluck  and  worry,  flap  and  bristle? 

Surely  you  have  found  the  best 

Of  protection  for  a  nest, 

Thickening  burrs  and  spikes  of  thistle, 

Cluck  and  hover,  cluck  and  whine, 

And  a  poison-ivy  vine, 

Cluck  and  chirrup,  cluck  and  whistle. 

—74— 


Meadow-Shoes 

My  shoe-soles,  wet  in  the  meadow, 
Sang  like  the  chirrup  of  birds  — 
But  like  birds  of  only  a  note  or  two, 
Like  persons  of  few  words. 

And,  O  my  shoes,  how  hard  it  is 
To  tell  the  joy  you  touch ! 
I  know,  for  I  have  tried  to  sing 
The  things  I  love  too  much. 


•75— 


Grass-Tops 

What  bird  are  you  in  the  grass-tops? 
Your  poise  is  enough  of  an  answer, 
With  your  wing-tips  like  up-curving  fingers 
Of  the  slow-moving  hands  of  a  dancer  .  .  . 

And  what  is  so  nameless  as  beauty, 
Which  poets,  who  give  it  a  name, 
Are  only  unnaming  forever?  — 
Content,  though  it  go,  that  it  came. 


-76- 


The  Sandpiper 

Along  the  sea-edge,  like  a  gnome 

Or  rolling  pebble  in  the  foam, 

As  though  he  timed  the  ocean's  throbbing, 

Runs  a  piper,  bobbing,  bobbing. 

Now  he  stiffens,  now  he  wilts, 
Like  a  little  boy  on  stilts ! 
Creatures  burrow,  insects  hide, 
When  they  see  the  piper  glide. 

You  would  think  him  out  of  joint, 
Till  his  bill  begins  to  point. 
You  would  doubt  if  he  could  fly, 
Till  his  straightness  arrows  by. 

You  would  take  him  for  a  clown, 
Till  he  peeps  and  flutters  down, 
Vigilant  among  the  grasses, 
Where  a  fledgling  bobs  and  passes. 


—77— 


The  Enchanted  Toad 

Three  times  you  had  neared  —  I  unaware  — 

My  body  warm  in  the  sand  and  bare. 

Three  times  you  had  hopped  your  silent  track 

To  the  arch  of  shadow  under  my  back. 

And  each  time,  when  I  felt  you  cool 

And  turned  on  you  and,  like  a  fool, 

Prodded  your  exit  from  my  place, 

Sorrow  deepened  in  your  face. 

You  were  loth  to  leave  me,  though  I  threw 

Handfuls  of  sand  to  quicken  you. 

You  would  look  as  you  went  and  blink  your  eyes 

And  puff  your  pale  throat  with  surprise. 

Three  times  you  had  tried, 'like  someone  daft  .  .  . 

O  could  it  be  that  evil  craft 

Had  long  bewitched,  from  the  man  you  were, 

Some  old  Chinese  philosopher 

And  warted  you  dank  and  thwarted  you  dumb 

And  given  you  three  times  to  come 

And  beg  a  friend  to  set  you  free  ?  — 

And  had  you  spent  them  all  on  me? 


-75- 


The  Enchanted  Swans 

Out  of  a  fairy-tale  they  flew  above  me, 

Three  white  wild  swans  with  silk  among  their 

wings  — 

And  one  might  be  a  princess  and  might  love  me, 
If  I  had  not  forgotten  all  such  things. 

They   flew    abreast    and   would   not    pause    nor 

quicken, 

One  of  them  guarded  by  the  other  two, 
And  left  me  helpless  here,  alone  and  stricken, 
Without  the  secret  that  I  thought  I  knew. 


— 79— 


The  Swimmer 

The  reach  of  peace,  the  sky,  the  pines, 
Leave  me  no  more  perplexed, 
In  which  a  memory  divines 
That  bodies,  buried,  yet  arise 
Across  the  reach  of  all  the  skies, 
Unburied  and  unvexed, 
As  arisen  are  the  grass,  the  pines, 
In  upward-grown,  delighted  lines  — 
As  a  swimmer  with  one  wave  declines 
And  rises  with  the  next. 


— 80— 


Carvings  of  Cathay 

All  the  world  was  near  today  .  .  . 
The  waves  were  carvings  of  Cathay 
Thrown  and  broken  at  my  feet, 
And  these  old  desert-sands  were  sweet 
With  dead  pagodas,  buried  tiles 
And  ocean-grass  for  miles  and  miles. 

Every  little  tuft  of  green 
Was  a  brush-stroke  on  a  screen, 
Mounds  and  dunes  made  a  redoubt 
Good  for  keeping  Tartars  out, 
And  a  temple-cloud  was  dim 
At  the  sea's  imperial  rim. 

This,  the  ocean  I  was  on, 

Confucius  witnessed  from  T'ai-Shan, 

The  knees  of  Buddha  made  the  sign 

Of  calm  that  I  composed  with  mine, 

And  as  many  as  the  sands 

Were  Kwan-Yin's  mercies  and  her  hands. 

—8 1- 


I  could  hear  a  dragon-whelp 
Mewing  in  a  maze  of  kelp, 
Gulls,  with  turnings,  flashes,  flares, 
Filled  the  wind  like  paper  prayers, 
And  capping  me,  like  Him,  from  sun, 
The  snails  of  thought  crawled  one  by  one. 


—82- 


Through  a  Gateway  in  Japan 

A  torii  stood,  three  miles  above  the  bay, 

A  gate  of  sacred  ground, 
And  when  I  wandered  through  a  little  way, 

I  paused  and  found 

No  temple-steps,  no  lanterns  and  no  shrine, 

Only  divinity  — 
The  solitary  presence  of  a  pine 

Facing  the  sea. 


Japanese  Notes 


In  the  House  of  Lafcadio  Hearn 

I  left  my  name  today 

Before  him  and  Buddha, 

And  knelt  among  his  books, 

And  had  tea  with  his  wife  and  two  children 

And  bowed  low  to  them  .  .  . 

And  then  in  his  garden, 

When  his  wife  picked  for  me  the  petals  I  wished, 

His  son  said, 

"  But  he  liked  the  maple  best," 

And  brought  me  a  spray  of  young  leaves. 

In  the  Yoshiwara 

She  sat  as  white  as  moonlight 
When  the  sea  is  still. 
She  moved  as  bright  as  moonlight 
When  the  sea  wrestles  with  the  shore. 

In  a  Temple 

This  was  the  fortune  I  was  told: 

If  you  work  hard  all  the  time, 

Good-luck  will  attend  you  like  a  steady  wind. 

-84- 


In  a  Theatre 

As  the  wooden  blocks  clack 

For  the  curtain  to  rise, 

Step  after  step  I  hear  his  wooden  clogs 

Clacking  through  the  night  to  my  door, 

For  the  curtain  of  my  heart  to  rise 

On  my  own  actor, 

My  beloved. 

In  a  Poem 

This  night  last  year, 

An  old  woman  dusted  the  paper  shutter 

Very  carefully, 

That  the  shadow  of  the  pine-tree 

Might  be  quite  perfect. 

In  a  Painting 

I  have  guided  you  many  a  day 

Up  the  infinite  mountain. 

And  you  have  not  seen  till  now, 

At  the  summit, 

That  the  mountain  is  made  of  skulls. 

Are  you  asking  me  whose  ? 

Your  own! 


-85- 


In  Kamakura 

In  Kamakura,  near  the  great  Diabutsu, 

When  I  had  sat  a  long  time  on  the  ground 

And  been  gathered  up,  forgetful  of  my  face  and 

form, 

Into  the  face  and  form  of  endless  dream, 
I  found  among  the  booths  a  little  pendant  Buddha 
With  the  steel  of  a  round  mirror  for  His  halo  .  .  . 

So  that  a  brooding  head  still  intervenes  in  bronze 
Between  my  face  and  the  image  of  my  face, 
And  I  cannot  see  myself  and  not  see  Him. 


— 86— 


The  Neighbors  Help  Him  Build 
His  House 

A  Japanese  Folk-Chant 

A  Young  Man  Sings 

Out  come  the  leaves, 

The  long  green  leaves 

Of  the  young  pine-tree  in  spring  — 

So  may  the  days, 

The  growing  days, 

Yield  you  everything. 

The  Others 

As  part  is  true 

May  the  rest  be  true, 

True  in  the  heart  of  the  spring! 

An  Old  Man  Sings 

Blest  be  the  house, 

Honored  the  house, 

May  a  woman's  womb,  adored, 

Which  was  Buddha's  house 

-87- 


And  Shaka's  house, 

Here  be  the  house  of  the  Lord. 

The  Others 

As  part  is  true 

May  the  rest  be  true 

And  here  be  the  house  of  the  Lord! 


—88— 


Chinese  Notes 

In  Manchuria 

In  my  heart  flutter  wings 

Toward  the  little  bright  bough 

On  the  brown  hillside, 

Toward  the  solitary  tree,  blossoming 

My  heart  flies  there, 

Leaving  a  shadow  of  azaleas.     . 

In  Peking 

My  eyes  are  blinded 

By  the  flying  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  my  heart  smiles 

At  my  own  motions 

In  the  wind. 

The  'Ming  Tombs 

Blown  shadows,  through  the  grass, 

Not  of  the  kings, 

But  of  the  builders  and  carriers  .  .  . 

It  is  the  kings  now  who  seem  chained, 
And  the  others  free. 

-So- 


In  Shantung 

A  burnished  magpie 

Strutting  in  the  sun 

Claiming  a  path  among  furrows  of  rice  — 

But  in  the  distance 

The  quiet  trot 

Of  a  blue-coated  horseman. 


Chinese  Drawings 


A  Father 

There  is  a  fruit,  my  son, 
Bitter  to  the  taste  at  first 
But  afterward  sweet  ... 
It  is  called  advice. 

A  Tea-Girl 

When  the  fish-eyes  of  water 
Bubble  into  crab-eyes  — 
Tea! 

A  Wanderer 

Last  night  is  a  thousand  years  ago  — 

But  tomorrow  is  a  new  mist. 

A  Lover 

The  plums  and  cherries  are  blossoming, 
My  heart  too  is  unsheathing  from  winter 
And  it  has  all  happened  in  one  day. 

—91— 


A  Fendor  of  Rose-Bushes 

I  am  very  poor, 

Anyone  who  can  buy  from  me 

Ought  to  do  it. 

A  Painter 

I  cannot  paint 
The  growth  of  the  spirit, 
But  I  can  paint  an  old  man 
Watching  the  smoke  of  incense 
Join  the  sky. 

A  Lady 

She  does  not  see  the  tea  her  servant  brings 

Into  the  garden, 

Her  hands  have  fallen  down  from  the  instrument 

She  was  playing, 

But  the  strings  can  still  answer 

The  cold  fingers  of  autumn. 

A  Scholar 
Having  won  his  diploma, 
He  rides  a  horse  of  air 
Through  ten  miles  of  the  color 
Of  apricot-blossoms. 

A  Philosopher 
What  though  they  conquer  us? 
— 92— 


The  tea  has  come. 

In  at  most  nine  hundred  years, 

Someone  will  conquer  them. 

A  Horseman 

Beyond  him  are  many  inlets  curving  among  moun 
tains 

And  on  the  way  a  temple, 
And  there  is  gold  on  the  harness  of  his  horse 
Whose  head  and  foot  are  uplifted  together  .  .  . 
But  the  rider  sits  quiet  now, 
As  he  rides  toward  the  shadow 
Of  the  second  willow. 


—93' 


The  Chinese  Horseman 

There  were  flutes  once  merry  with  stops 
And  bottles  round  with  wine, 
Lips  dewy  as  with  attar-drops 
And  breasts  of  deep  moon-shine, 
There  were  thrushes  in  the  market-rows, 
Caught  from  the  circling  air, 
And  no  bird  sang  so  true  as  his, 
And  there  were  hills  for  prayer  — 
But  over  the  bridge  the  rider  goes, 
The  rider  who  was  fond, 
Leaving  what  was,  crossing  what  is, 
By  the  bridge  that  leads  beyond, 
Beyond  the  many  songs  he  knew 
And  sang  to  lips  he  kissed, 
Beyond  the  rounded  green  and  blue, 
Beyond  the  mist. 

And  the  scholar  who  may  question  him 
Will  hear  only  the  sound 
Of  wind-curled  waves  at  the  river-brim 
And  of  willows  trailing  the  ground 
— 94— 


And  will  see  the  quiet  of  five  bays 
Pointing  like  a  hand 
Toward  the  five  valleys  that  divide 
The  long  mountain-land 
Beyond  the  white  azalea  ways, 
Beyond  the  moonstone  wave, 
Where  no  one  may  be  lost  nor  hide 
Nor  may  be  saved  nor  save, 
But  where  the  rider  may  forego, 
And  laugh  no  more  nor  moan, 
And  of  all  pulses  never  know 
Which  were  his  own. 


— 95' 


Tiles 

Chinese  magicians  had  conjured  their  chance, 
And  they  hunted,  with  their  hooded  birds  of  glee, 
The  heat  that  rises  from  the  summer-grass 
And  shakes  against  the  sea. 
And  when  they  had  caught  a  wide  expanse 
In  nets  of  careful  wizardry, 
They  colored  it  like  molten  glass 
For  roofs,  imperially, 

With  blue  from  a  cavern,  green  from  a  morass 
And  yellow  from  weeds  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  they  laid  long  rows  on  the  dwellings  of  ro 
mance 

In  perfect  alchemy  — 

And  before  they  ascended  like  a  peal  of  brass, 
They  and  their  tiptoeing  hawks  of  glee 
Had  topped  all  China  with  a  roof  that  slants 
And  shakes  against  the  sea. 


The  Pure-Hearted  Girl 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

The  ospreys  are  echoing  us 
On  the  river-island  — 
Where  is  the  pure-hearted  girl 
To  be  our  princess? 

Long  lotus,  short  lotus, 
Leaning  with  the  current, 
Turns  like  our  prince  in  his  quest 
For  the  pure-hearted  girl. 

He  has  sought  and  not  found  her. 
Awake,  he  has  thought  of  her, 
Asleep,  he  has  dreamed  of  her, 
Dreamed  and  tossed  in  his  sleep. 

Long  lotus,  short  lotus, 

Pluck  it  to  left  and  to  right, 

And  make  ready  with  lutes  and  with  harps 

For  the  pure-hearted  girl. 

—97— 


Long  lotus,  short  lotus, 

Cook  it  for  a  welcome, 

And  be  ready  with  bells  and  with  drums 

For  the  pure-hearted  girl. 


-98- 


Colloquy 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

'  You  with  the  collar  of  blue, 
I  cannot  come  to  you, 
But  you,  if  you  please,  are  free  — 
Then  why  not  come  to  me?  " 

'  You  with  the  girdle  of  blue, 
I  cannot  come  to  you, 
But  you,  if  you  choose,  are  free  - 
So  why  not  come  to  me?  " 

"  O  you  who  fancy  the  new, 
The  day  when  you  go  for  a  view 
From  the  tower  lasts  for  me 
A  month  or  two  or  three !  " 


Home 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

Great  trees  in  the  south 

Give  me  no  shelter 

And  women  loitering  by  the  Han 

Leave  me  cold. 

O  Han  too  deep  for  diving, 

0  Kiang  too  long  for  poling! 

Faggots,  brambles, 

1  cut  them  with  a  will  — 
But  those  girls  facing  home, 

I  should  like  to  feed  their  horses. 

O  Han  too  deep  for  diving, 

0  Kiang  too  long  for  poling! 

Faggots,  artemisia, 

1  cut  them  with  a  will  — 
But  those  girls  facing  home, 

I  should  like  to  feed  their  colts. 
— 100 — 


O  Han  too  deep  for  diving, 
O  Kiang  too  long  for  poling ! 


— 101 — 


The  Two  Rivers 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

Where  you  fish  between  two  rivers 

With  your  tall  bamboo, 
When  the  oar-light  quivers, 

My  heart  comes  to  you. 

Far  from  the  new  home  gleaming, 

I  see  the  old  again, 
And  you  who  sit  there  dreaming 

Between  the  K'e  and  Ts'uen. 

To  the  left  the  Ts'uen  is  moving 
And  the  K'e  flows  to  the  right  — 

And  I  long  for  you  whose  loving 
Was  once  my  delight ! 

You  hear  the  rising,  falling, 
Of  the  boats  of  yellow  pine, 

You  hear  two  rivers  calling  — 
One  of  them,  mine. 

— 102 — 


And  a  young  girl's  girdle-jewel 
Is  the  oar-light  that  you  see  - 

For  O  my  heart  is  cruel 

And  goes  where  I  would  be ! 


— 103— 


The  Silk-Dealer 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

You  were  young  and  a  dealer  in  silk 

And  appeared  to  have  no  thought  but  of  silk, 

But  I  was  the  silk  you  desired. 

And  we  crossed  far  over  the  ford 

And  you  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but  of  me 

And  of  marrying  me  in  the  autumn. 

* 

But  before  autumn  came  I  was  weeping, 

For  you  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but  of  spring, 

And  the  gate  was  an  empty  shadow  — 

Till  I  laughed  your  name  in  the  gate, 
Where  back  you  came,  your  young  face  bright 
With  the  blessing  of  fortune-tellers. 

And  I  rode  away  as  your  bride, 
Before  autumn  had  tarnished  mulberry-leaves, 
Mulberry-leaves  and  a  woman  .  .  . 
— 104 — 


All  this  was  years  ago. 

And  now  I  am  crossing  the  ford  again, 

Where  the  mulberry-leaves  are  yellow, 

With  no  change  in  my  heart 

Which  beat  through  poverty  those  years  with  you. 

But  I  tell  my  brothers  nothing  .  .  . 

O  to  be  facing  old  age 

Hand  in  hand,  instead  of  this  remembering 

How  we  crossed  the  ford  together 

And  there,  beyond  the  marshy  shore, 

How  you  seemed  to  have  no  thought  but  of  me  — 

And  how  I  let  my  hair  down ! 


—105- 


The  Forsaken  Wife 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

The  wind  is  no  more  from  the  north. 
But  when  there  was  storm  and  hail 
None  was  closer  to  you  than  I. 
When  there  was  woe  and  misfortune 
You  chose  me, 
And  now  that  ease  has  come 
You  have  found  fault  with  me 
And  left  me. 

The  wind  is  not  yet  from  the  north, 

But  the  hill  shall  be  bleak  again 

And  there  shall  be  no  blade  of  grass  unwithered, 

No  tree  not  bowed. 

And  then,  when  you  are  alone, 

You  shall  think  of  one 

Whose  faults  are  all  you  remember  now 

And  never  a  virtue. 


— 1 06 — 


Change 

(An  Old  Chinese  Song) 

The  days  and  months  do  not  last  long, 
The  springs  and  autumns  follow  one  by  one, 
And  when  I  watch  the  fall  of  the  flowers 
And  of  the  leaves  and  of  the  trees, 
I  know  that  even  the  loveliest  person 
Little  by  little  must  change. 


—107— 


Temple-Inscriptions 

Half-way  up  the  hill 
And  into  the  light. 

Where  the  heart  is, 

There  is  Buddha. 

How  can  the  hills  of  the  spirit 

Be  only  in  the  Western  Quarter? 

The  distant  water, 

The  near  hills, 

The  deep  blue  of  the  clearing  sky. 

What  is  sacred  is  universal. 

The  three  religions  have  for  their  soul 

One  principle. 

The  pure  wind, 

The  bright  moon, 

The  clear  and  thoughtful  heart. 


—108— 


Night 

(From  the  Russian  of  Polonski) 

I  have  loved  you,  O  silvery  night 

Why  ?     Who  knows  — 

When  my  love  has  brought  me  more  pain  than 

repose ! 

Yet  I  love  you,  unanswering  night 
Kinder  to  everyone  else  than  to  me 
With  the  touch  of  your  light 
Of  the  stars  and  the  moon,  making  diamond-bright 
Flower-paths  on  the  cliff,  trailing  gold  on  the  sea, 
But  bringing  no  quieting  beauty  to  me 
And  no  end  of  my  years 
And  no  ease  for  my  tears. 

Why  should  I  love  you  then,  why, 
Silent,  silvery  night, 

Since  you  give  no  reply  to  my  heart  and  its  cry 
And  I  have  only  pain  from  you,  never  delight? 
Who  knows  why  I  love  you  ?     O  not  even  I  — 
Though  I  lift  up  my  love  and  implore  you,  yet 
nothing  is  there 

— 109 — 


But  the  vague  of  the  silvery  air 

And  a  whisper  that  peace  and  the  answer  are  far, 

Are  beyond  the  last  gleam  of  the  ultimate  star. 


1 10 — 


Russians 

To  Stephen  Graham 

(With  acknowledgment  of  suggestions  from  his 
book,  "  Undiscovered  Russia  ") 

An  Englishman 

I  went  an  Englishman  among  the  Russians, 

Set  out  from  Archangel  and  walked  among  them, 

A  hundred  miles, 

Another  hundred  miles, 

A  moujik  among  moujiks, 

Dirty  as  earth  is  dirty, 

And  found  them  simple  and  devout  and  kind, 

Met  God  among  them  in  their  houses  — 

And  I  returned  to  Englishmen,  a  Russian. 

A  Concertina-Player 

I  earn  my  copecks  at  the  beer-houses, 

Or  on  a  pilgrimage; 

And  —  shall  I  tell  you  ?  — 

I  often  play  to  beggars  —  and  they  pay  me  .  .  . 

I  lost  my  eye  by  hoping  to  be  rich. 


Some  Germans  built  a  factory, 

And  people  said  to  all  the  boys : 

"  Go  work  there  and  be  rich !  " 

You  know  the  German  way?  — 

Using  up  men  for  making  things? 

What  are  things  for  but  men? 

Yet  when  they  took  my  eye  with  their  machinery 

They  made  me  this,  they  made  a  man  of  me, 

They  turned  me  to  my  music, 

As  you  see  me, 

Tramping,  never  starving, 

In  prison,  never  sorry, 

My  music  and  my  freedom  and  the  road  — 

The  earth  my  hostess 

And  the  sun  my  host. 

A  Prophet 

Tomorrow  is  Elijah's  Day! 

The  world  comes  to  an  end ! 

Release  your  souls,  release  your  souls, 

For  whoso  in  his  body  keeps  his  soul 

Upon  that  dreadful  day 

Is  damned! 

Hang  yourselves  and  drown  yourselves, 

Die  by  the  knife,  the  gun,  the  rope, 

All  shall  please  God! 

And  if  your  women  and  your  children  falter, 

Then  kill  them  first. 

r   T  ^ 

"••* 2    I  m,~~* 


The  cheerful  giver  pleaseth  God!  .  .  . 

I  take  my  leave  of  you, 

I  lead  the  way. 

Hand  me  the  rope, 

Make  sure  the  noose  will  slip  .  .  . 

Forgive  me  if  I  have  not  saved  your  souls, 

As  I  forgive  you  for  not  listening. 

My  mother  I  forgive  for  bearing  me, 

My  father  for  begetting  me, 

Mankind  for  being  like  me. 

So  farewell! 

Receive  me  — 

God! 

A  Drunkard 

They  ask  me  what  I  sing  about  — 
Who  knows?  .  .  . 
Vodka  bakes  me  in  my  innards, 
Drops  of  it  are  in  my  beard, 
And  I  find  my  wife  as  wicked 
As  I  feared; 

For  she  barred  the  door  against  me 
And  I  haven't  any  roof, 
O  she  sent  the  devil  walking 
On  his  hoof ! 

The  canary  puts  her  babies 
In  a  cosy  little  nest 
And  the  wolf,  for  all  his  prowling, 
— 113— 


Goes  to  rest  — 

But  I  haven't  any  family 

And  I  might  as  well  be  dead, 

0  I  haven't  any  corner 
For  my  head !  .  .  . 

They  ask  me  what  I  sing  about  — 
Who  knows?  .  .  . 
Vodka  burns  me  in  my  innards, 
And  I'm  crying  in  my  beard  — 
And  yet  nothing  is  the  matter, 

1  am  comforted  and  cheered. 

A  Miserable  Maiden 

I'm  a  miserable  maiden 

And  my  petticoat  is  torn  — 

Though  I'm  thirty,  not  a  baby 

Have  I  born  .  .  . 

Though  my  face  is  very  pretty, 

Yet  a  face  can  never  save, 

And  they'll  carry  me  unmarried 

To  the  grave. 

I  have  gone  to  many  ikons 

And  my  tears  came  out  and  ran 

And  I  begged  the  saints  for  mercy 

And  a  man  .  .  „ 

Nursing  other  people's  babies 

For  eleven  years  I've  done, 

But  I  haven't  any  children, 

— 114— 


Not  one ! 

0  Madonna,  my  Madonna, 
Pity  me  and  make  me  brave, 
Till  they  lay  me,  cold  and  single, 
In  the  grave  .  .  . 

An  Old  Man 

1  shall  die  soon; 

For  I  hear  a  voice  inside  my  skull, 

Blowing  like  a  wind  .   .  . 

My  son,  his  wife  and  all  of  them  want  me  to  die. 

I  can  do  no  more  work, 

And  so  they  beat  me  and  beat  me 

And  give  me  no  sugar  in  my  tea  .  .  . 

Last  week  they  put  me  to  work  making  my  coffin. 

They  hurried  me,  lest  I  should  die 

Before  it  was  done. 

Now  that  it's  done,  they  make  me  sleep  in  it  — 

Yes,  every  night  they  make  me  sleep  in  it  ... 

If  I  should  oversleep  some  day  — 

They  might  —  before  I  waked  — 

There! 

You  hear  it  now? 

That  wind  inside  my  skull, 

Trying  to  blow  my  soul  out ! 

A  Boy 

On  the  edge  of  the  narrow  river 
My  little  dear  sits 


With  her  little  white  feet  in  the  water  .  .  . 

Overhead  in  the  air 

The  gray  geese  fly. 

Fly  away,  gray  geese,  fly  away, 

For  your  touch  might  ruffle  the  water, 

Or  your  shadow  darken  the  water, 

And  I  couldn't  be  seeing  them  so  clear, 

Her  darling  white  feet ! 

A  Girl 

They  say  that  on  this  night  of  St.  John  the  Bather 

Twelve  blossoms  open  in  the  woods 

And  one  of  them  is  happiness  .  .   . 

So  I  go  out  to  find  it  in  the  woods  — 

Past  the  young  men  who  leap  through  the  lighted 

bonfires, 

The  young  men  brave  with  vodka  .  .  . 
And  in  the  woods  will  be  other  girls  — 
And  there  may  be  —  one  young  man  .   .   . 
O  help  me,  bless  me,  dear  St.  John  the  Bather! 

0  let  me  miss  the  blossom  — 
And  find  him! 

A  Revolutionary 

Father!- 

1  wanted  to  come  back  and  make  you  see. 
I  could  have  shown  you. 

— ii  6 — 


Nothing  has  hurt  me  like  your  misunderstanding 

me  ... 

And  you,  my  mother, 
Your  honey-lips,  your  apple-cheeks, 
If  I  could  have  had  the  comfort  of  kissing  them 
And  been  comforting  to  you, 
It  would  not  be  so  hard  .   .   . 
I  shall  be  here  ten  months,  before  I  go. 
Perhaps  they'll  let  you  see  me. 
Come,  if  you  can. 

For  I  have  no  sweetheart  but  you  — 
And  life. 

And  life  is  a  strange  sweetheart 
To  see  me  young  and  strong  and  clean, 
Yet  to  have  no  wish  for  me, 
To  let  me  give  up,  go  out  — 
When  I  have  cared  so  much ! 

A  Communist 

I  shall  need  no  priest, 
Only  my  people, 
Communion  with  my  people. 
"  Forgive  me,  north  and  south, 
Forgive  me,  east  and  west!  " 
That  will  be  all  — 
And  enough. 

—7/7— 


A  Moujik 

Hola,  ye  Siberian  steppes  and  stars, 
Why  has  he  so  much 
And  I  nothing? 

Why  has  he  so  much  who  does  no  work? 
Why  does  he  eat  and  drink  and  make  merry, 
When  I  who  do  all  the  work 
Have  nothing? 

Hola,  ye  steppes  and  stars, 
Why  has  he  so  much 
And  I  nothing? 


-1 1 8— 


Pan  Sings 

They  are  all  mine  for  my  song, 
The  right,  the  divine,  the  wrong, 
The  sailor  with  wings  of  the  sea, 
The  cooley  who  sings  to  a  tree, 
The  poet  with  a  moon  in  his  river, 
The  red  with  a  rune  in  his  quiver, 
The  black  with  a  harp  in  his  feet 
Playing  sharp,  sweet, 
And  even  the  Englishman 
Somehow  singing  with  Pan, 
The  right,  the  wrong,  the  divine, 
They  belong  —  they  are  mine ! 


•7/p — 


Robert  Browning 

An  amateur  of  melody  and  hue, 

Of  marble  outline  and  of  Italy, 

Of  heresies  and  individuals 

And  every  eccentricity  of  truth; 

And  yet  an  Englishman,  a  healthy  brute 

Loving  old  England,  thrushes  and  the  dawn; 

A  scholar  loving  careful  gentlemen; 

A  man  of  fashion  loving  the  universe; 

A  connoisseur  loving  dead  artists'  lives, 

Their  names,  their  labors  and  their  enemies; 

A  poet  loving  all  the  ways  of  words; 

A  human  being  giving  love  as  love, 

Denying  death  and  proving  happiness  — 

When  you  love  women  because  youth  loves  women, 
And  when  you  love  a  woman  because  heart 
Understands  heart  through  more  than  youth  or 

age 

Or  time,  and  when  you  marvelously  become 
The    man    whom    Carlyle    and    whom    Landor 

loved  — 

You  are  life's  poet  by  a  poet's  life, 
— 120 — 


But  when  you  set  yourself  about  with  words, 
Abracadabra,  bric-a-brac  and  the  dust 
Of  piled  confusion,  toying  with  obsolete 
Prescriptions,  and  when  owlish  lenses  hide 
Your  eyes  until  you  marvelously  become 
A  ponderous,  pondering  apothecary  — 
You  dispense  remedies,  but  not  to  me !   .  .  . 
So  I  take  down  your  bulky  book  of  records, 
Turn  to  those  certain  pages  where  you  tell 
The  beauty  of  a  shoulder  or  reveal 
The  pure  and  simple  permanence  of  love, 
And  am  content  to  learn  by  a  lazy  glance, 
Through  other  passages,  how  you  conserve 
The  true  susceptibility  and  pathos 
Of  bishops,  mediums  and  murderers, 
Manage  the  rhythm  of  fantastic  souls, 
Mark  in  the  fault  something  to  profit  by, 
Challenge  the  far  perfection  resident 
In  imperfection's  opportunity, 
And,  more  magnanimous  than  most  of  us, 
Finding  yourself  in  all  humanity, 
Forgive  humanity  for  what  you  find. 


-121- 


A  Portrait 

There  are  two  of  them: 

One  is  easy-going,  with  a  forelock  of  beauty, 
His  mouth  an  avenue  for  words  natural  to  the 

heart, 

His  heart  an  avenue  of  likings  and  aversions, 
His  mind  less  given  to  ideas  than  to  arguments 
And  less  to  neighbors  whom  he  knows  than  to  dis 
tillers  whom  he  does  not  know  .   .  . 
And  yet  his  heart   and  mind  and  mouth  make 
music; 

The  other,  patient  and  convinced  of  the  breath  of 

life 

As  the  one  breath  of  many  people, 
A  man  of  tenderness  and  understanding, 
Is  full  of  speech  but  dumb 
And,  with  everything  of  good  to  sing, 
Cannot  make  music. 

But  is  it  so  ill-portioned  as  it  seems? 
Or  is  it  balanced  and  acceptable? 
Is  it  not  music? 

722 


You  Told  Me  of  Your  Mother 

You  came  to  town  tonight 

Wearied  and  worn  of  heart,  no  feeling  left, 

You  came  to  town  tonight 

And,  meeting  me  who  hardly  knew  you, 

You  told  me  of  your  mother,  of  the  memories  that 
mingled  and  ordained 

Her  heart  your  refuge  and  her  life  your  minister. 

You  told  me  of  your  mother,  naming  her  with  a 
proud  smile, 

Comparing  her  with  women  whom  we  knew. 

But  on  your  mouth  brimmed  heartbreak 

Because  you  were  no  longer  at  home,  waiting  the 
minutes  through, 

Helpless,  unhelping,  an  atom  of  life,  made  of  her 
life  .   .  . 

You  looked  at  me,  and  in  your  eyes 

Wandered  the  human  woe  and  could  not  rest. 

Why  had  she  borne  you,  to  be  made  of  her, 

To  take  her  life  and  hold  it  unfulfilled, 

To  break  a  part  of  it  away  that  might  not  be  re 
stored 

—123— 


By  her  love  or  by  yours  or  any  tenderness 

Or  any  grief. 

Hour  after  hour,  day  after  day, 

Life  had  assembled  its  ironic  facts 

And  hurt  your  heart  with  them 

And  left  you  nothing  but  desire 

To  be  obedient  and  mindful  of  her,  to  abate 

The  beat  of  gay  unhappiness 

That  had  shut  out  her  simple  word. 

Heart  touches  heart  but  briefly  in  this  world 

And  faith  is  lightly  taken  and  the  grave 

Is  full  of  unacknowledged  love. 

You  could  not  sit  at  home  there,  separate  from 

her, 

And  face  the  wing  of  death 
That  makes  of  silence  hurricane. 
You  came  to  town  tonight, 
Met  me  by  chance  and  tried  to  laugh  with  me 
At  lesser  things.     And  all  the  while 
Death  blew  with  life  alternate  on  your  brow  .   .  . 
Then  suddenly  you  rose,  cried  out  upon  yourself 
For  coming  and  for  laughing,  clenched  your  hands 

and  hid  your  forehead 
For  admitting  life  and  its  absurdities 
When  death  was  the  companion  you  had  changed 
For  me  ... 
O  I  am  humble.     But  I  tell  you  this, 

—124— 


That  greatness  was  upon  me  when  I  looked  be 
yond  the  dim  horizon  of  your  eyes 
And  saw  arisen  like  a  perfect  sun 
The  rounded  wonder  of  eternity, 
Your  death,  her  life,  beyond  the  reach  of  time, 
Commingling  me  and  all  men  in  their  dawn. 


—725- 


To  a  Young  Passer-By 

You  have  the  look  my  cousin  had 
When  he  was  young  as  you. 
But  the  look  my  cousin  has  today  — 
Is  that  to  be  yours  too? 

What  would  you  say  if  I  stopped  you  now 
And  said  what  I  have  to  say 
And  told  you  a  simple  way  to  keep 
The  look  you  have  today, 

To  believe  that  hate  is  always  the  lie 
And  that  love  is  always  the  truth, 
To  believe  to  the  end,  yes,  even  alone  .  . 
But  who  can  talk  to  youth! 


— 126— 


The  Desert 

To  David  Greenhood 

The  world  was  good  but  was  empty 
Of  all  but  mottled  sand, 
When  out  of  the  blue  above  it 
Stretched  a  Hand 
Whose  fine  and  fiery  fingers, 
Making  the  breath  of  men, 
Placed  on  the  rim  of  the  desert 
Adam  again. 


—727— 


You  Told  Me  of  an  Eagle 

To  Worth  Ryder 

When  you  told  me  of  an  eagle,  caged, 

Sitting  on  his  dead  tree 

And  facing  motionless 

That  opening  toward  mountains 

And  that  air  for  wings, 

You  turned  your  head 

Like  an  eagle  caged. 

And  when  you  told  me  of  a  leopard 
Pacing  his  bare  floor, 
Your  hand  curved  back  and  forth 
Like  the  motion  of  a  leopard  .  .  . 

And  beyond  the  iron  of  imagination 
Crept  toward  the  desert  hills. 


—128— 


At  a  California  Homestead 

To  Jack  layman 

Hills  of  haze  bordered  your  valley 
And  fountains  of  roses  your  old  home, 
Where  I  had  never  been  before 
Yet  climbed  again  the  stairs  of  my  childhood 

And   found   on    the    wall   two    swallows,    em 
broidered, 

Threading  over  stitches  of  water 
And  saw,  through  the  honeysuckle  window, 
The  stone-wall  falling  into  woods  .  .  . 

But  I  have  left  the  childhood  room, 
Down  the  stairway,  bending  my  head, 
Out  of  the  gray  house,  past  the  roses, 
Into  these  unfamiliar  days. 


—I2Q— 


On  Leaving  California 

To  Elvira  Foote 

There's  a  long  line  of  iron  track 
With  mountains  at  the  end, 
And  I  who  leave  am  looking  back, 
Through  them,  to  a  friend, 

To  California,  to  a  bay 
Inwinding  from  the  sea, 
Where  swords  of  sun  and  water  play 
'Not  tonight  for  me  .  .  . 

But  the  eucalyptus  still  was  there 
At  owl-time  with  no  moon; 
And  as  the  morrow  grew  aware, 
So  shall  I  be  soon 

* 
Of  the  household  on  the  hill, 

The  two  beloved  pines, 
The  color  of  the  window-sill, 
The  pointing  of  the  vines, 

— /jo — 


And  I  shall  see  your  face  unite 
Tomorrow  with  today, 
And  watch  it  changing  like  the  light 
Of  waters  in  the  bay. 


—131— 


Away  from  California 

To  Edna  Garnett 

They  try  to  show  me  a  moon  here, 
Forgetting  that  I  went 
Up  the  hills  of  Berkeley 
Into  the  firmament. 

They  try  to  show  me  a  sun  here, 
"  It  glitters  bright,"  they  say, 
Forgetting  that  I  watched  the  fog 
On  San  Francisco  Bay. 

They  try  to  show  me  beauty, 
To  ease  my  heart's  desire 
For  a  face  of  California 
Profiled  with  fire  I 


—132— 


Reminder 

To  Haniel  Long 

Rise,  lad,  let  the  world  grow  weary, 
Linger  not  with  snailing  things, 
Lift  and  where  the  winds  are  veery 
Ride  them  with  your  larking  wings, 
Leave  the  thunder  plunging  after 
And  the  lightning,  where  you  range 
On  the  plumes  of  love  and  laughter 
Through  the  crooked  gust  of  change ! 


A  Dinner-Table 

To  Scudder  Middleton 

It  was  a  dinner-table  and  the  talk 

Except  for  you  would  have  been  smooth  and  com 
fortable, 

Revering  money  mostly  and  its  whims. 

But  you  were  there  and  danced  around  the  table, 

Light  on  your  feet  and  laughing  in  the  room 

And  young  and  hard  to  follow. 

They  could  not  be  your  partners  in  that  dance; 

And  they  rebuked  such  manners  in  a  proper  world 

And  scored  your  faith  with  facts. 

Yet  all  the  time  they  watched  a  light  that  danced 
with  you. 

Darkness  as  old  as  time  towered  about  you, 

From  aged  crags  the  rocks  fell  down, 

And  yet  you  danced  impetuous,  a  very  fool  of 

light, 
The  swift,  impatient  partner  of  the  sun. 


134— 


The  House  of  Music 

To,  Florence  Blumenthal 

Those  corridors  of  calm  where  beauty  paced, 

With  wonder  on  her  smiling  lip,  those  heights 

Where  went  columnal  gray  antiquity 

Veiling  her  youth  with  curious  memories, 

That  round  and  carven  fountain  where  leaned  love 

And  watched  the  breathing  bosom  of  her  tears  — 

All  were  forgotten  in  the  echoing  silence 

Of  the  lone  figure,  in  that  house  of  music, 

Of  hope  still  fingering  a  shaft  of  sun. 


— 135— 


Voices 

To  Sara  Teasdale 

O  there  were  lights  and  laughter 

And  the  motions  to  and  fro 
Of  people  as  they  enter 

And  people  as  they  go  ... 

And  there  were  many  voices 

Vying  at  the  feast, 
But  mostly  I  remember 

Yours  —  who  spoke  the  least. 


•136 — 


Two  Poets  Reading  Together 

To  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  and  Walter  de  la  Mare 

The  ancient  elements  of  poetry 

Have  come  together  here,  two  kinds  of  art, 

In  Gibson  the  old  wizardry  of  the  heart, 

In  De  la  Mare  the  heart  of  wizardry. 

Gibson  has  told  how  harsh  the  world  can  be 

To  humble  folk  with  dreams  who  have  to  part 

From  dreams  awhile,  and  De  la  Mare  can  start 

Dreams  tiptoeing  beyond  adversity. 

For  Gibson  words  are  people,  everything 
They  suffer  and  enjoy,  and  in  the  end 
The  sufferings  are  not  so  great  as  the  joy. 
For  De  la  Mare  people  are  words  that  bring 
New  magic  to  the  ear,  strangers  that  lend 
A  book  of  fairy-stories  to  a  boy. 


To  One  Young  as  a  Rose 

To  Rose  O'Neill 

There  never  was  so  young  a  child, 
There  never  was  a  rose  so  wild, 
There  never  was  a  lip  that  smiled 
So  wise  of  all  the  world, 

Save  you,  a  rose  of  suddenness 
Young  as  an  infant's  first  caress  — 
And  your  dear  lip  of  bitterness 
Deep  within  sweetness  furled. 


-138— 


In  a  River-Town 

To  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

Brave  listener  to  the  melodious  heart, 

Its  broken  rhythms,  its  beating  in  the  night, 

Accurate  scribe,  the  figures  of  whose  art 

Subtract,  divide,  add,  multiply  aright, 

We  who  came  after,  reverent  and  wise, 

Went  visiting  your  river-town  and  you 

And,  haunted  by  the  quiet  of  your  eyes, 

Yet  saw  them  beautiful  and  found  them  true  .  . 

And  now  when  ecstasies  of  youth  subside 

And  shadows  darken  the  importunate  will 

And  neighbors  are  away  and  friends  have  died, 

We  learn  compassion  on  your  evening-hill 

And,  by  forgiving,  are  ourselves  forgiven, 

Near  an  old  apple-tree  petalled  with  heaven. 


—139— 


Till  Spring 

To  Sarah  Ernst  Abbott 

Frail  through  the  earth  you  came,  but  flowering 
With  courage  of  the  sun,  with  wisdom  of  the  rain. 
Now,  blown  to  earth  by  a  sudden  wind  of  pain, 
Your  beauty  rests  from  venture  till  the  spring. 


— 140 — 


In  Memory  of  a  Young  Painter 

To  Warren  Rockwell 

He  dreamed  of  Italy  and  Greece: 
His  heart  was  sure  that  Rome, 
The  Forum,  the  Acropolis, 
Athens,  were  beauty's  home. 

He  waited  hoping  to  the  end 

For  Greece,  for  Italy; 
But  with  a  family  to  befriend, 

His  way  was  never  free. 

Attentive  he  approved  them  dear, 

Shielded  them  day  by  day 
From  want,  while  softly  year  by  year 

Italy  drew  away. 

Yet  beauty  which  his  eyes  could  see 
Made  them  adore  and  shine. 

And  what  in  Greece  or  Italy 
Has  done  as  much  for  mine  ? 


Richard 

To  Richard  Mansfield  2nd 
The  fretful  brow 
Is  smoothed  away, 
The  little  smile 
Has  come  to  stay  .  .  , 
He  was  uncertain 
Now  and  then, 
But  Richard 
Is  himself  again. 

Happy,  hasty, 
Wanton,  wild, 
So  young  a  sage, 
So  old  a  child, 
He  was  bound  to  fret 
Among  ordinary  men 
But  Richard 
Is  himself  again. 


—142— 


The  Boxer 

To  Jack  London 

For  how  could  you  grow  up,  boy  of  the  world? 

You  were  not  meant 

To  be  forgetful  and  content 

And  sober,  on  whose  brow  youth  curled 

Unkempt.     Time  had  no  right  to  tell 

You  how  to  go.     And  so  with  all  your  vim 

You  made  a  gay  adventurous  pass  at  him. 

He  struck.     You  fell. 

You  dared  to  be  young.    -That,  in  the  sight 

Of  Time  the  Champion,  was  tantamount 

To  challenge.     So  you  came  chaffing, 

Defying,  sparring  with  him  as  an  angel  might  .  .  . 

And  now  are  still.     Or  do  you  hide  your  face  to 

use  the  count, 
And  are  you  laughing? 


Aloha  Oe 

To  Queen  Liliuokalani 

Aloha,  valiant  queen,  who  to  the  end 

Made  of  indignity  a  crown 
And  not  until  you  died  would  condescend 

To  lay  your  kingdom  down, 
Child-woman,  queen  of  children,  born  for  fun, 

For  play,  for  make-believe,  increase, 
At  last  your  heritage,  earth,  water,  sun, 

And  take  them  now  in  peace. 


To  Shepherds  and  Wise  Men 

In  Memory  of  Anna  Howard  Shaw 

A  star  danced  and  she  was  born 
To  hold  its  dancing  in  her  eyes, 
To  be  a  guide  to  the  forlorn, 
To  be  a  beacon  to  the  wise. 

She  was  a  rising  of  the  dead 
To  prove  they  had  not  died  in  vain, 
And  ghosts  of  the  uncomforted 
Followed  laughing  in  her  train. 

She  was  a  living  benison 
To  prove  the  potency  of  birth 
With  the  dear  honor  she  has  done 
To  generations  of  the  earth. 

She  was  herself  the  starry  light 
Leading  still  to  Nazareth, 
Moving  lovely  through  the  night, 
Dominating  even  death  .  .  . 


Follow,  then,  to  every  town 
When  an  angel  blows  his  horn, 
Where  a  light  is  leaning  down, 
Where  a  little  child  is  born. 


— 146 — 


Rain 

To  Celia  Keays 

They  tell  me  that  we  tenderly  keep 

The  happy  things, 

Forgetting  pain. 

There  was  a  night  when  I  could  not  sleep 

For  happiness  of  the  sound 

Of  rain 

Along  the  ground. 

And  in  the  morning-sun,  from  east  to  west 

I  felt  the  dancing  wings 

Of  a  mocking-bird. 

And  of  all  the  sounds  I  ever  heard 

I  hear  those  oftenest, 

That  rain  still  falls,  that  mocking-bird  still  sings 

Though  Celia  went  away 

That  day, 

Not  to  come  back  again. 


—147— 


Night 

To  Celia  Keays 

Celia,  when  you  bade  me 
Good-morning,  I  would  wake 
Quick  again  on  your  account, 
Eager  for  your  sake. 

Yet  at  morning  or  at  noon 
In  the  clearest  light, 
Is  there  any  voice  as  near 
As  your  voice  at  night? 

Or  has  anyone  alive 
Ever  come  and  said 
Anything  as  intimate 
As  you  are  saying,  dead? 


— 148— 


An  Ode  to  a  Dancer 

To  Isadora  Duncan 

O  Keats,  thy  Grecian  urn  has  been  upturned 

And  from  its  ashes  is  a  woman  made, 
To  dance  them  back  again  as  when  they  burned 
In  young  antiquity  and  pipes  were  played !  — 
And  who  that  early  woman  was  that  danced 
Them  dead,  thou,  Keats,  wert  born  too  late  to 

know 

And  born  too  early  for  her  later  birth. 
And  yet  thy  lips  of  poesy  could  blow 
Both  lives,  until  their  ankles  met  and  glanced 

Between  the  dead  world  and  the  unborn  earth. 

Here  is  thy  living  witness  from  the  dead, 

With  the  garment  and  the  measure  and  the 

grace 

Of  a  Greek  maid,  with  the  daisies  on  her  head 
And  the  daring  of  a  new  world  in  her  face. 
Dancing,  she  walks  in  perfect  sacrifice. 
Dancing  she  lifts  her  beauty  in  her  hands 
And  bears  it  to  the  altar,  as  a  sign 
—149— 


Of  joy  in  all  the  waters  and  the  lands. 
And  while  she  praises  with  her  pure  device, 

The  breath   she   dances  with,   O   Keats,  is 
thine ! 

Life  rises  rippling  through  her  like  a  spring, 

Or  like  a  stream  it  flows  with  deepening  whirl. 
Leaves  in  a  wind  taught  her  that  fluttering 

Of  finger-tips.     She  moves,  a  rosy  girl 
Caught  in  a  rain  of  love ;  a  prophetess 

Of  dust  struck  on  the  instant  dumb  with  pain; 
A  lovely  melancholy  being,  wild 

With  remembering,  with  groping  to  attain 
The  edge  and  entrance  of  a  wilderness, 
To  play  again,  untroubled  as  a  child. 

She  strikes  at  death.     But  the  escaping  foe 

Awaits  unwearied,  knowing  every  wile. 
Forward  she  comes  to  take  the  final  blow  — 

And  in  defeat  defies  him  with  her  smile  .  .  . 
Upward  she  bares  her  throat  to  the  keen  thrust 

Of  triumph :  — "  O  ye  gods  of  time  who  give 
And  take,  ye  makers  of  beauty,  though  I  die 

In  this  my  body, —  beauty  still  shall  live 
Because  of  me  and  my  immortal  dust!  — 

O  urn!     Take  back  my  ashes!     It  is  I!  " 


—150— 


Isadora 

To  Her  Six  Dancers 

Beauty  came  out  of  the  early  world, 
Her  hyacinthine  hair  still  curled, 
Her  robe  still  white  on  auroral  limbs; 
And  her  body  sang  the  self-same  hymns 
It  long  ago  had  sung  to  the  morn 
When  death  gave  birth  and  love  was  born. 

And  once  again  her  presence  proved, 
As  most  immortally  she  moved, 
That  in  her  meditative  eye 
The  child  of  death  can  never  die 
But  dances  with  inspired  feet 
On  every  hill,  in  every  street. 

She  raised  her  hand  —  and  Irma  came, 
Theresa,  Lisel,  each  like  a  flame, 
Anna,  Erica,  Gretel :  the  tread 
Of  life  still  dying,  never  dead  .  .  . 
And  like  a  bird-song  in  a  wood, 
Within  their  very  heart  she  stood. 
—757— 


Tolstoi 

Awhile  I  felt  the  imperial  sky 
Clothe  a  sole  figure,  which  was  I; 
Then,  lonely  for  democracy,  ^ 
I  hailed  the  purple  robe  of  air 
Kinship  for  all  mankind  to  share; 
But  now  at  last,  with  ashen  hair, 
I  learn  it  is  not  they  nor  I 
Who  own  the  mantle  of  the  sky: 
Silence  alone  wears  majesty. 


—152— 


Saint-  Gaudens 

He  called :  and  forth  there  came 

Not  wholly  veiled, 

Forth  from  the  earth, 

Silence  made  visible. 

Touching  no  finite  answer  on  that  mouth, 

Yet  his  fine  fingers  found  reply 

And  from  the  light  upon  his  soul 

He  drew  the  light  of  the  unlighted  tomb, 

From  man  and  woman  both 

The  image  of  the  unimagined  face, 

And  left  here  in  this  Rock  Creek  burial-place 

The  arm  of  life, 

The  veil  of  time, 

The  uncorrupted  presence  of  the  dead. 


—153— 


Whitman 

As  voices  enter  earth, 

Into  your  great  frame  and  windy  beard 

Have  entered  many  voices, 

And  out  of  your  great  frame  and  windy  beard, 

As  out  of  earth, 

They  are  shaken  free  again  .  .  . 

With  the  thunder  and  the  butterfly, 

With  the  sea  crossing  like  runners  the  tape  of  the 
beach, 

With  machinery  and  tools  and  the  sweat  of  men, 

With  all  lovers  and  comrades  combining, 

With  the  odor  of  redwoods  and  the  whisper  of 
death, 

Comes  your  prophetic  presence, 

Never  to  be  downed,  never  to  be  dissuaded  from 
singing 

The  comfortable  counsel  of  the  earth 

And  from  moving,  athletic,  intimate,  sure,  non 
chalant, 

Friending  whoever  is  friends  with  himself, 

Accusing  only  avoiders,  tamperers,  fabricators, 


And  yet  touching  with  your  finger-tips 
All  men, 

As  Michael  Angelo  imagined  God 
Touching  with  sap  the  finger-tips  of  Adam, 


—'55— 


Across  the  Ferry  to  Fort  Lee 

Across  the  ferry  to  Fort  Lee 
One  Sunday  twilight  we  set  out. 
And  I  loved  you  and  you  loved  me 
Shyly,  sharply,  tenderly, 

And  each  heartbeat  between  us  was  the  hushing  of 
a  shout. 

Among  the  youthful  trees  we  came, 
New  as  ourselves,  breathless  and  dim; 
And,  leaving  behind  the  ripples  of  flame. 
Each  of  us  named  the  other's  name 
And  we  stood  there  rooted  like  a  double  sapling, 
limb  to  limb. 

Sabbath  was  in  the  little  town 
And  sleepy  people  in  the  cars; 
We  wandered  east  again,  to  see 
The  city  of  infinity 

Over  our  heads  and,  down  below,  the  little  New 
York  stars. 


And  so  we  happened,  in  the  dark, 
Upon  an  inn  called  Belvedere  .  .  . 
Lured  by  a  lit  and  beckoning  mark 
As  at  the  entrance  to  a  park, 
We  stood  before  an  ancient  house  that  promised 
modern  cheer. 

As  German  as  a  proper  brew, 
Our  host  himself  opened  the  door. 
I  think  the  round-necked  German  knew 
That  you  loved  me  and  I  loved  you, 
I  think  he  must  have  welcomed  lovers  many  times 
before. 

He  led  us  to  a  low  long  room, 
A  public  room  with  a  private  air: 
At  one  end,  shining  in  the  gloom, 
A  Christmas-tree  was  still  in  bloom, 
And  members  of  his  family  sat  each  in  a  special 
chair. 

They  sat  in  a  circle  round  a  stove, 
Contentment  in  its  anchored  guise, 
Like  fishing-vessels  in  a  cove 
After  the  daylight.     And  we  throve 
In  our  own  inward  harbor  and  our  home  was  in 
our  eyes. 

—157— 


He  brought  up  heavy,  hearty  food, 
And  heavy,  hearty  fun  as  well, 
And  then  he  left  us  to  our  mood 
And,  as  if  to  prove  that  the  world  was  good, 
He  crossed  to  the  piano  and  played  us  Wilhelm 
Tell 

But  we  forgot  him  presently 
As  we  retold  the  chosen  way 
We  had  planned  at  dawn  to  find  Fort  Lee, 
I  loving  you,  you  loving  me, 

And  we  lived  again  each  hour  of  the  dear  long 
day. 

An  aged  woman  parted  our  dream, 
As  into  a  kiss  there  comes  a  pang; 
On  the  mother's  face  was  many  a  seam 
Of  years  and  only  a  little  gleam  .  .  . 
"  Bitte,  '  Der  liebe,  lange  Tag  ' !  "  she  said.     And 
so  he  sang. 

His  folds  of  fat  faded  away 
And  one  by  one  her  folds  of  pain; 
Hearing  him  sing  "  The  Dear  Long  Day," 
She  was  no  more  ancient  and  gray, 
She  was  her  God's  eternal  love,  she  was  a  girl 
again. 

-158- 


At  first  she  nodded  her  head  and  tapped 
Her  foot  along  the  simple  beat, 
And  then  we  saw  her  clasp  her  chapped 
And  withered  hands,  her  eyes  were  rapt, 
And  in  and  out  on  her  toothless  gums  her  lips  were 
singing  sweet. 

And  through  my  own  tears  I  could  see 
Upon  your  face  the  tears  that  fell, 
I  loving  you,  you  loving  me. 
We  were  that  moment  old  as  she  .  .  . 
We  know  what  she  remembered  —  and  beloved, 
it  is  well. 


—159— 


Alma  Mater 

And  one  enlisted  for  my  land 
When  war  let  loose  the  sundering  flood; 
And  one  —  because  his  father's  blood 
Was  hot  in  him  —  let  go  my  hand. 

I  lost  them  both, —  but  not  before 
I  kissed  them  both.     The  battle,  done, 
Defeated  one,  exalted  one  .  .  . 
Ask  me  not  which  I  love  the  more. 

1914 


— 16  o — 


Jane  Ad  dams 

It  is  a  breed  of  little,  blinded  men 
And  fickle  women,  who  would  laugh  at  her 
Because  in  time  of  war  she  sets  astir 
Against  the  sword  the  legions  of  the  pen 
To  write  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ  again 
And  on  this  page,  a  swarming  broken  blur, 
Restore  the  word  of  the  deliverer 
Above  the  little  words  of  blinded  men. 

In  time  of  peace,  which  is  a  time  of  war 
More  subtle  slow  and  cunning,  she  has  brought 
Together  enemies  in  armistice  .  .  . 
Yet,  in  the  face  of  what  she  did  before 
Against  the  war  that  centuries  have  fought, 
We  ban  her  from  a  little  war  like  this ! 

79/5 


—161— 


To  Germany 


(For  her  son,  Karl  Liebknecht,  who  alone  in  the 
Reichstag  stood  up  against  war) 

I  love  thee  for  one  hero,  surely  one. 

My  spirit  straightens,  like  the  tempered  blade 

Of  his  unmasterable  weapon  made 

In  heaven's  high  forge,  not  hell's.     I  had  begun 

To  dread  thy  horrid  shadow  in  the  sun, 

To  hate  thee  for  thy  national  parade 

Of  heathen  men  idolatrous  of  Trade, 

Shouting  the  great  commandment  of  the  Gun. 

But  thou  hast  bred  out  of  thy  land  a  man 
Of  braver  metal  than  thy  generals; 
Above  the  thunderbolt  his  courage  calls. 
He  is  thy  founder  and  thy  guardian, 
He  is  thy  hero,  Liebknecht,  who  alone 
Under  the  lightning  lays  thy  cornerstone. 

1915 

—162— 


Foam 

The  ocean  tosses  patterns  at  my  feet  — 

Large,  irresistible,  minute  and  lost. 

A  busy  rabbit-headed  grasshopper 

Carves  a  green  blade  down  to  the  yellow  spine. 

Over  the  mounded  sand  hot-foots  an  ant. 

A  ghostly  spider  pauses  in  the  sun. 

Across  the  sea  those  armies,  that  small  chaos 

Of  rabbit-headed  hot-foot  ghostly  men 

Are  ocean-patterns  brought  me  by  the  surf, 

Large,  irresistible,  minute  and  lost. 

1916 


•163 — 


Sands 

I  fell  on  a  dune  and  slept, 

Sharp  grasses  by  my  head: 

While  armies  far-off  warred  and  wept, 

I  joined  the  earth  instead  .  .  . 

Until  I  moved  my  hand 

And  was  awake  again 

And  shook  myself  out  of  the  sand 

To  the  cold  wind  of  men. 

1916 


—164 — 


News  of  a  Soldier 

A  stem  of  grass,  by  my  left  foot, 
Stands  upward  from  the  root. 
A  blade  of  grass,  by  my  right  hand, 
Has  bent  downward  to  the  sand  . 


Life,  to  me  strange,  to  him  was  dear. 
But  he  is  gone  and  I  am  here 
And  on  his  earth  I  move  my  feet 
Which  were  still  when  he  was  fleet. 

I  see  my  hand  sweat  in  the  sun 
As  if  with  labor  he  has  done  — 
For  he  took  earth  as  for  the  strong, 
While  I  have  heard  earth  as  a  song, 

A  song  intricately  sung 
Of  me  older,  of  him  young  .  .  . 
Can  I  believe  now,  he  submit, 
I  on  the  earth,  he  under  it? 

1916 

-165- 


The  Wounds 

I  saw  a  German  soldier 

Off  duty  lift  his  gun 
And  shoot  a  Belgian  hanging 

By  the  neck  in  the  sun, 
A  Nazarene,  a  peasant, 

Hanging  till  he  died, 
And  the  German  soldier's  bullet 

Made  a  hole  in  his  side. 

I  saw  a  Belgian  soldier 

Walking  in  the  dark, 
And  he  stumbled  on  a  German 

Who  lay  still  and  stark, 
A  Nazarene,  a  peasant, 

Who  dies  in  many  lands, 
And  the  Belgian  soldier's  bayonet 

Pierced  both  his  hands. 


—166— 


Niagara-on-the-Lake 

I  heard  them  march  and  drill, 
Canadian  men  and  boys : 

Around  a  cross  upon  a  hill 
I  heard  a  martial  noise. 


O  shall  I  never  know, 
But  do  as  I  did  then?  — 

At  Rome's  commanding,  always  go 
To  mock  my  God  again? 

1916 


•167 — 


Kit  Thurber 

Unseen  These  Thirty  Years 

Up  that  river  Norwich  lies 

And  the  little  gate 
Which  used  to  click  me  off  to  school 

When  I  was  late  .  .  . 

A  rhododendron  in  the  yard, 

A  well,  an  arbored  seat 
And,  behind  the  house,  a  cherry-tree 

Where  robins  dared  to  eat. 

And  past  the  cherry,  past  the  grapes 
And  the  hen-house  and  the  shed 

And  the  bean-poles,  cabbages  and  beets 
And  the  apples  overhead 


—168- 


And  past  the  mystical  fringe  of  trees, 
Bushes  and  stumps  and  ferns, 

We  used  to  find  a  world-wide  river 
And  its  endless  turns. 

Robinson  Crusoe  wandered  there 
And  the  Swiss  Family  swarmed 

And  other  vagabonds  we  knew 
Whom  you  and  I  performed. 

Two  stones  and  a  boulder  made  a  bay 
And  a  rubbishy  stick  a  boat, 

And  frigates,  caravels,  pinnaces 
Would  enter  there  and  float, 

Would  anchor  off  our  palmed  coast 

Or  founder  and  go  down, 
And  companies  would  come  ashore 

To  build  a  holy  town. 

Columbus  came,  Balboa  came, 

Vespucci  and  Cortez, 
And  there  were  deaths  and  burials 

And  births  and  marriages  .  .  . 

Kit  Thurber  came  and  I,  I  came, 
And  we  built  a  shore  of  dreams, 

As  many  boys  in  many  lands 

Have  built  on  many  streams  .  .  . 
— 169 — 


And  now  I  pass  in  time  of  war 

This  river  hung  in  fog, 
Where  two  bare-legged,  wading  boys 

Caught  once  a  log 

And  made  of  it  a  monitor 

For  conquering  the  South  — 
And  all  those  memories  today 

Are  bitter  in  my  mouth. 

O  river  Thames,  my  river  Thames, 

Bitter  you  lead  away 
Into  a  fog,  into  a  dark, 

To  a  death  we  used  to  play, 

Pupils  of  malice,  sons  of  war  — 

Preparing  to  be  hurled 
Into  a  grave  of  agony, 

The  children  of  the  world  .  .  . 

So  come  once  more  through  the  fringe  of 
trees 

Where  long  ago  we  came  — 
Leave  life  behind,  Kit  Thurber,  come! 

Death  is  the  game ! 

igi6 

—170— 


The  Thunder-Bringer 

America,  you  cannot  do  without  me !  — 

I  have  come  back  again, 

Shaker  of  men, 

And  where  I  tread 

Between  the  living  nations  and  the  dead, 

My  bold  young  eagles  of  the  west 

Rattle  their  wings  about  me 

And,  like  a  clashing  legion,  breast 

The  tumult  of  my  enemies. 

These  are  my  weapons,  these, 

0  you  who  doubt  me : 

The  beaks  of  my  young  eagles  against  the  fiery 

beast, 

Their  claws  against  the  dragon  of  the  east, 
Their  eyes  and  wings  against  the  infested  seas! 

1  am  The  Man !  — 

Take  me,   America !  —  the   irresistible,   the   req 
uisite  ! 

Nothing  shall  harm  you,  nothing  can, 
If  it  results  in  Me. 


I  am  the  perfect  fit 

For  all  your  moods, 

Shooting  a  slug  of  solid  slang 

Into  every  wall  of  the  whole  shebang: 

American  enough 

To  pull  a  bluff 

And  to  keep  on  bluffing  till  I  win; 

Or  to  parley  with  philosophy; 

Or  to  be  natural  —  a  hearty,  rough 

Man  of  the  woods; 

To  use  both  enemies  and  friends 

All  to  my  ends ; 

To  thrust  my  chin 

Into  any  face 

In  any  place, 

And  to  make  the  round  world  farther  ring 

My  fame  than  that  of  any  king; 

To  keep  down  age  and  ease  and  fat 

By  a  try  at  this  and  a  try  at  that; 

To  do  my  thinking  in  my  hat ; 

To  do  my  talking  with  a  click 

Of  a  trigger-jaw  and  a  loaded  stick; 

To  be  never  weak  and  always  strong; 

To  be  always  right  and  never  wrong; 

To  be  a  whirlwind  on  the  way 

Toward  second  place  on  Judgment-Day; 

To  make  myself  God's  punishing-thong, 

—772— 


His  winnowing  fan : 

The  thunderbolt  American! 

Eagles,  arouse  my  country  from  her  sleep, 

That  she  shall  leap 

Awake  and  keep  her  faith  with  Me 

Who  am  her  Destiny, 

Me!     Me! 

Shaker  of  men ! 

Then  — 

Who  in  heaven  can  doubt  us, 

Who  in  hell  flout  us  ?  — 

Rattle  your  wings  about  us 

Wildly  as  you  can  — 

My  Country  and  her  Man! 

1916 


The  Light-Bringer 

This  is  a  time  of  death  and  blinded  pain; 

And  men,  as  if  half-slain, 

New-bleeding  from  old  scars, 

Stare  at  delirium 

With  empty  eyes 

And  can  no  longer  tell  how  patient  come 

Into  the  skies 

The  counselling  stars. 

These  be  my  weapons  in  the  fight : 

The  invincible  nights  and  days 

(My  bright  flag  signalling  their  points  and  rays) 

And  the  one  proud  profoundest  gun, 

The  blazing  unassailable  light 

Of  the  sun ! 

O  my  own  people !  —  if  we  dare  to  be 

Humanity, 

If  our  preparedness  be  first  within, 

If  we  be  resolute  to  sever 

The  heart  of  courage  from  the  heart  of  fear  — 

—174— 


Then  we  shall  hear, 

Above  the  din, 

The  only  trump  of  victory, 

Not  for  the  day,  not  for  the  year, 

But  forever. 

1916 


Republic  to  Republic 

France ! 

It  is  I,  answering, 

America. 

And  it  shall  be  remembered  not  only  in  our  lips 

but  in  our  hearts 
And  shall  awaken  forever,  familiar  and  new  as  the 

morning, 

That  we  were  the  first  of  all  lands  to  be  lovers, 
To  run  to  each  other  with  the  great  cry 
Of  recognition. 

Bound  by  no  ties  of  nearness  or  of  knowledge 

But  of  the  nearness  of  the  heart, 

You  chose  me  then. 

And  so  I  choose  you  now 

By  the  same  nearness  .  .  . 

And  the  name  you  called  me  then 

I  call  you  now  — 

O  Liberty,  my  Love ! 

1917 

— 176 — 


The  Home-Land 

(From  the  French  of  Emile  Cammaerts) 

It's  a  certain  voice,  it's  the  sound 
Of  a  bell  in  a  distant  tower, 
It's  sunlight  on  the  ground 
Through  trees  or  after  a  shower, 
It's  a  certain  roof  under  a  certain  sky, 
The  fragrance  of  the  path  of  a  certain  street, 
A  steeple  with  a  farm  kneeling  nearby, 
The  feeling  of  the  grass  under  the  feet, 
The  fragrance  of  the  path  of  a  certain  street, 
The  flash  of  a  look,  the  faltering  of  a  hand, 
A  something  from  the  past,  too  quick  to  under 
stand, — 

It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 
Even  when  one  sings, 
Though  that's  the  nearest  way, 
It's  all  those  things. 

It's  what  one  tastes  and  sees, 
It's  what  one  breathes  and  hears, 
Tobacco,  bread  and  cheese, 
—777— 


Bright  leaves,  a  wind  that  veers, 

The  common  sights  and  sounds, 

Dogs  barking,  people  greeting, 

A  mug  of  ale  that  pounds  and  pounds 

A  table  at  some  meeting  — 

It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 

Even  when  one  sings, 

Though  that's  the  nearest  way, 

It's  all  those  things. 

It's  the  body's  very  best, 
It's  the  heart-beat  in  the  side 
For  children  at  the  breast, 
It's  remembering  those  who  died, 
It's  the  ardor  of  the  way, 
It's  the  savor  of  the  song, 
It's  the  dream,  aching  to  stay, 
And  the  passion,  to  belong, 
The  sower's  will  to  reap, 
The  lover's  will  to  keep  — 
It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 
Even  when  one  sings,  — 
Though  that's  the  nearest  way, 
It's  all  those  things. 


-178- 


A  Canticle  of  Praise 


A  Canticle  of  Praise 

(A  salutation  of  bugle  and  drum) 

The  First  Cantor  (to  the  continuing  solemn,  low 
beat  of  the  drum) 

Sing  in  thanksgiving,  a  song  of  the  Lord 

Who  moves  in  His  might  through  the  feet  of  His 
horde. 

(The  drum  ceases) 

O  clap  your  hands,  you  people,  and  O  you  hills, 
give  praise 

For  the  coming  of  His  glory,  the  mystery  of  His 
ways! 

Look  and  you  shall  see  the  Lord,  though  your  eyes 
be  dim! 

Sing  and  you  shall  hear  the  Lord  —  in  His  Battle- 
Hymn! 

The  People  (singing) 

"  Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of 

the  Lord; 
"  He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 

of  wrath  are  stored; 

— 181— 


"  He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  ter 
rible  swift  sword; 
"  His  truth  is  marching  on. 
"  Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 
"  Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 
"  Glory,  glory,  hallelujah! 
"  His  truth  is  marching  on." 

The  Second  Cantor 

O  clap  your  hands,  you  people,  and  O  you  hills, 
give  praise ! 

An  end  is  come  of  Egypt,  an  end  of  evil  days. 

Under  the  red  sea  again  that  covers  all  vain  things 

Are  drawn  the  intolerant,  intolerable  kings. 

Behold,  their  drowning  chariot-wheels,  those  im 
perial  wills, 

Give  praise,  O  you  people,  and  clap  your  hands, 
you  hills ! 

(A  salutation  of  bugles) 

Give  thanks  for  lads  who  held  Liege,  the  gate, 

While  Europe  shook  amazed, 

Those  first,  those  garlanded,  those  sons  of  fate ! 

O  let  the  name  be  praised 

Of  the  town  where  the  conquerors  met  the  Belgian 
heart, 

Till  France  came,  and  Britain  came,  to  do  their 
part! 

Liege  I     That  name !     Name  it  with  a  shout ! 

—182— 


The  People 
Liege ! 

The  Second  Cantor 
Again  — 

The  People 
Liege ! 

The  First  Cantor 

And  what  were  they  fighting  for,  fighting  to  de 
fend? 

They  were  fighting  for  the  homeland,  world  with 
out  end  — 

Not  for  the  monster,  the  devourer,  the  state, 

But  for  everybody's  homeland  they  held  Liege, 
the  gate, 

Their  home  and  your  home,  well  you  all  know  it  — 

Yet  hear  it  in  the  echo  of  a  Belgian  poet  .  .  . 

The  Second  Cantor  (as  a  bell  'rings  softly) 
"  It's  a  certain  voice,  it's  the  sound 
"  Of  a  bell  in  a  distant  tower, 
"  It's  sunlight  on  the  ground 
*  Through  trees  or  after  a  shower, 
u  It's  a  certain  roof  under  a  certain  sky, 
"  The  fragrance  of  the  path  of  a  certain  street, 
"  A  steeple  with  a  farm  kneeling  nearby, 
"  The  feeling  of  the  grass  under  the  feet, 
"  The  fragrance  of  the  path  of  a  certain  street, 


"  The  flash  of  a  look,  the  faltering  of  a  hand, 
u  A  something  from  the  past,  too  quick  to  under 
stand — 

"  It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 
"  Even  when  one  sings, 
"  Though  that's  the  nearest  way, 
"  It's  all  those  things  " — 
For  which  France  came  and  Britain  came 
To  do  their  part, 
And  Russia,  Russia, 
With  the  bleeding  heart  .  .  . 

Both  Cantors  and  the  Musicians  (singing  in  uni 
son,  first  boldly,  then  faintly,  slowly,  to  the 
air  of  The  Volga  Boatmen) 

Hear  the  boatmen  on  the  Volga, 

Hear  them  singing  on  the  Volga, 

Hear  the  boatmen  on  the  Volga  .  .  . 

The  First  Cantor 

Hear  them,  those  forgotten  men,  men  with  bare 
hands, 

Who  fought  for  their  own  and  for  other  lands 

And  in  Mazurian  marshes,  in  snow  and  in  sleet, 

Saved  the  British  and  the  French  from  de 
feat!  .  .  . 

Remembering  Russia,  let  us  not  mistake 

Her  hopeful,  crucified  heart-break! 

In  our  ease  of  victory,  let  us  give  thanks 
— 184— 


To  those  peasant-soldiers,  those  Russian  ranks 
Who,  betrayed  by  their  masters,  yet  fought  and 

fought  again  — 

And  dared  at  last  the  estate  of  men  .  .  . 
Let  us  be  humble  and  own  to  them  our  debt, 
Lest  we  be  arrogant,  lest  we  forget 
Who  gave  to  us  our  wider  cry  against  imperial 

wills  — 
Praise  them,  O  you  people,  remember  them,  you 

hills ! 

The  Second  Cantor 

And    why    is    every    freeman    every    freeman's 

friend, 

If  not  for  every  homeland,  world  without  end! 
"  It's  the  body's  very  best, 
"  It's  the  heart-beat  in  the  side 
"  For  children  at  the  breast, 
"  It's  remembering  those  who  died, 
"It's  the  ardor  of  the  way, 
"  It's  the  savor  of  the  song, 
14  It's  the  dream,  aching  to  stay, 
"  And  the  passion,  to  belong, 

4  The  sower's  will  to  reap, 
"  The  lover's  will  to  keep  — 
"  It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 
"  Even  when  one  sings, 

*  Though  that's  the  nearest  way, 
"  It's  all  those  things." 

-185- 


(A  long  roll  of  drums) 

The  First  Cantor 

And  what  would  have  become  of  all  those 
things, 

Where  would  they  be,  by  the  will  of  kings? 

Over  them  all,  a  tide  would  have  rolled 

An  ocean  of  iron,  if  the  kings  controlled  .  .  . 

But  the  men  of  France  and  England  heard  the 
flood, 

They  raised  human  dykes  up,  dykes  of  flesh  and 
blood, 

Building,  ever  building,  when  some  would  give 
way, 

Another  and  another,  till  the  flood  should  stay  .  .  . 

And  O  the  holy  river 

Whose  calm  name  shall  ever 

Be  a  name  —  by  which  to  pray ! 

Stand!     Uncover! 

Stand,  every  lover 

Of  France  and  of  Britain  and  of  home  today 

And  name  that  river,  that  immortal  river, 

Once  for  the  first  battle,  once  for  the  second, 

Both  of  those  battles  which  the  foe  never  reck 
oned, 

Let  high  heaven  hear  you  say  — 

The  People 
The  Marne! 

— 186— 


The  First  Cantor 
Again  — 

The  People 
The  Marne! 

The  First  Cantor 

Stand,  yet  stand  — 

And  name  the  command, 

The  everlasting  answer 

That  has  saved  Alsace  I 

Miraculous  answer, 

Agonized  answer, 

Solemn  as  a  mass ! 

Cannon!     Machine-gun!     Liquid-fire!     Gas! 

But  Verdun  answered  — 

Indomitable  answer ! 

They  shall  not  pass ! 

Remember  it !     Speak  it  — 

The  People 

They  shall  not  pass ! 

The  First  Cantor 

Again  —  with  all  your  voices  — 

The  People 

They  shall  not  pass ! 

(A  roll  of  muffled  drums) 

The  Second  Cantor 

And  now  your  own  are  answering  .  .  . 


Listen  to  them  clear  — 
Saying  in  their  graves, 
"  Lafayette,  we  are  here  " — 
Your  young,  your  quick, 
Your  dead,  your  dear  — 
O  say  it,  say  it  with  them, 
Deeper  than  a  cheer, 
Say  it  as  an  anthem, 
Say  it  as  a  tear, 
A  wreath,  a  crown  — 
Lafayette,  we  are  here, 
Say  it  as  a  prayer  — 

The  People 
Lafayette,  we  are  here. 

The  Second  Cantor 
Say  it  as  a  trumpet ! 

The  People 
Lafayette,  we  are  here ! 

(Trumpets  blow) 

The  Second  Cantor 

Give  praise  for  America, 

Final,  mighty,  sure, 

Whose  heart,  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Dared  to  endure ! 

Be  glad  of  her  patience, 

Slow  to  wrath  .   .  . 

—188— 


For  love  shall  be  given 

To  a  land  if  love  it  hath  — 

And  from  the  land  that  hath  not 

Love  for  aye 

All  that  it  hath 

Shall  be  taken  away  .  .  . 

O  be  glad  for  America, 

Whatever  they  say, 

America,  to  whom  the  world 

Turns  for  love  today  .  .  . 

So  remember  St.  Mihiel  — 

Argonne  —  Grandpre  — 

And  the  tide  at  Chateau-Thierry 

That  rolled  the  other  way!  — 

The  First  Cantor   (with  an  accent  of  cym 
bals) 

O  the  catalogue  of  victory, 
The  catalogue  of  cheer, 
City  after  city 
Which  the  world  holds  dear  — 

The  Second  Cantor 
Jerusalem,  Bagdad, 
Rheims,  Monastir, 
Strassburg,  Metz  — 

Both  Cantors 
Free! 


The  Second  Cantor 
And  that  city  by  the  Piave, 
That  city  by  the  sea, 
Venice,  delivered, 
Delivered  Italy! 

The  First  Cantor 
And  river  after  river, 
Line  after  line, 
The  Aisne,  the  Oise, 
The  Meuse  — 

(A  final  sharp  challenge  from  the  bugle) 

Both  Cantors  and  the  Musicians 
The  Rhine ! 

(The  cymbals  cease) 

The  Second  Cantor 
Cities  and  rivers 
Evermore  to  be 
Hymns  of  the  happy, 
Songs  of  the  free  .  .  . 

The  First  Cantor  (with  an  increasing  drum-roll) 

O  sing,  now  sing  a  song  of  praise, 

A  song  of  no  nation  now,  of  no  narrow  ways  — 

(One  quick  drum-beat) 
Both  Cantors 
The  song  of  the  world  — 

(Another  single  drum-beat) 
— igo — 


'Both  Cantors  and  the  Musicians 
The  Marseillaise ! 

(A  final  drum-beat) 

The  People  (singing) 

"  O  now  arouse,  ye  sons  of  a  world  of  light, 

"  To  greet  the  day  your  glory  comes ! 

"  Though  the  might  of  the  tyrant  advances, 

"  And  though  hate  be  the  beat  of  his  drums, 

*  Though  hate  be  the  beat  of  his  drums, 
"  Shall  the  tread  of  his  legions  appal  you, 

1  Though  trampling  the  fields  of  your  home, 
"  Though  near  and  nearer  yet  they  come  — 
"  Hear  the  lips  of  your  little  children  call  you 
"  To  arms,  ye  sons  of  light ! 
u  From  mountain  to  the  sea, 
"  March  on,  march  on,  sons  of  the  world  — 
"  Till  all  the  world  be  free !  " 

1918 


—igi— 


The  Day 

Not  as  they  planned  it  or  will  plan  again, 
Those  captains  whose  command  was  forged  in  hell, 
Not  as  they  promised  for  their  terrible 
Obedient  horde,  Teuton  and  Saracen, 
Bulgar  and  Slav,  not  as  they  dreamed  it  then, 
Masters  of  might  with  sobs  for  paeans  to  swell 
Their  darkening  sway,  but  like  a  far-off  bell 
Undoing  night,  the  day  has  come  for  men. 

The  people's  day  has  dawned,  a  deeper  sky 
Than  any  day  that  ever  rose  from  sea, 
And  more  than  any  captain  dared  is  won, 
And  this  great  light  that  opens  carries  high 
More  justice  than  we  dreamed  of,  even  we 
Who  still  are  blind  awhile,  facing  the  sun. 


—192— 


Jews  of  the  World 

"  Dear,  fainting  Jesu,  now  to  thine  own  seed 
Creep  home  again  —  who  else  can  understand 
thee?" 

— ISRAEL  ZANGWILL. 

I  make  amends  to  you  .  .  . 

I  have  disdained  you, 

I  have  made  a  mock'of  your  misfortunes, 

Money-lenders,  money-gatherers, 

Hoarders  of  might. 

But  today  you  come  from  a  new  Nazareth, 

Baffling  the  Pharisees, 

Understood  by  the  humble  and  meek, 

Earning  the  world 

Against  usurers, 

Winning  the  world 

Against  Caesar, 

Saving  the  world 

With  the  mere  heart  of  man, 

Bringing  the  world 

Peace. 

1919 

—193—      < 


Prepare! 


O  human  hearts, 

Beating  through  fear,  through  jealousy, 
Through  pride,  through  avarice,  through  bitter 
ness, 

Through  agony,  through  death, 
Beating,  beating 
Shame  and  forgiveness, 
Bewilderment  and  love, 
O  my  own  country, 
My  new  world, 
Prepare, 
Prepare  — 
Not  to  avenge  wrong 
But  to  exalt  right, 
Not  to  display  honor 
But  to  prove  humility, 
Not  to  bring  wrath 
But  vision, 
Not  to  win  a  war 
But  a  people, 
And  not  one  people  only 

—194— 


But  all  peoples, 

Not  to  exact  justice  from  your  enemies  only 

But  from  your  friends, 

And  not  from  your  friends  only 

But  first  from  yourselves ! 

1919 


—195— 


Shantung 


In  the  west  you  free  Jerusalem, 

But  in  the  east  you  sell 
T'ai  Shan,  the  Holy  Mountain  .  . 

I  hear  a  temple  bell 
Breathing,  like  a  perfume 

From  its  exalted  place, 
The  presence  of  Confucius, 

The  wisdom  of  a  race, 
The  future  of  a  people 

The  only  one  of  all 
Whose  conquerors  are  conquered, 

Whose  history  is  tall  — 
Taller  than  Fujiyama, 

Taller  than  Koyasan, 
Taller  than  that  red  sun 

Consuming  from  Japan  .  .  . 
And  my  face  is  in  the  flowers 

And  my  brow  is  in  the  dust 
And  my  heart  is  sick  with  perfume 

And  I  weep  because  I  must, 

— 196 — 


I  weep  for  you,  O  masters, 
O  conquerors,  O  slaves, 

As  I  hear  you  stir  in  China 
The  quiet  of  your  graves. 

1919 


—197— 


An  American 

They  buried  him  in  Russia  .  .  . 
When  he  tried 

To  ask  what  he  was  dying  for, 
No  man  replied. 

"  What's  it  all  about,  mate? 

Why  can't  I  know 

If  I'm  on  the  side  of  " —     Answer  him, 

Silence  and  snow ! 


—198— 


Russia 

He  shall  be  our  brother  and  be  our  friend, 
And  hunger  and  war  and  woe  shall  end ! 

The  word,  the  word,  of  heart,  of  mouth, 
East  and  west  and  north  and  south, 
Sharp  on  the  mountains,  rolling  on  the  rivers, 
Wide  on  the  steppes  the  white  word  quivers, 
Leaping,  laughing,  singing,  humming: 
Christ  is  coming,  Christ  is  coming ! 

Make  ready  your  houses,  make  ready  your  doors, 
Yours,  Mother  Mary,  and,  Peter,  yours! 
Martha,  Joseph,  Judas,  awake  — 
Christ  is  coming,  for  your  sake ! 
Christ  is  coming  through  the  land 
With  white  lilies  in  his  hand, 
Lilies  of  plenty,  lilies  of  peace, 
Coming  to  see  that  grief  shall  cease. 
He  shall  touch  with  his  lilies  every  head, 
Giving  love,  giving  bread. 
And  he  shall  be  our  little  czar 
With  angels  trumpeting  his  car, 
—199— 


And  he  shall  speak  —  and  no  more  sin ! 
And  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  shall  begin. 

But  who  is  this  with  a  savage  face  ?  — • 
What  man  has  come,  in  Jesus'  place, 
With  a  voice  not  saying  words  to  bless 
But  crying  in  the  wilderness? 

John,  John,  John,  John, 

Preparing  the  way  for  the  Lord! 

He  has  put  his  hairy  raiment  on 

And  he  drinks  from  a  bitter  gourd. 

He  faces  the  Herods,  he  frightens  them  dumb 

John,  John,  John  has  come  .  .  . 

And  a  million  innocent,  a  million  wise 
Wait  for  the  star  and  watch  it  rise. 

O  slay  our  first-born,  men  of  the  west, 
You  shall  not  slay  at  Mary's  breast! 
Send  your  soldiers,  send  your  might, 
They  shall  not  find  him  in  the  night. 
And  yet  the  Russian  shepherds  know 
And  Russia'n  wise  men  in  the  snow 
That  John  is  prophesying  true 
And  Christ  shall  come  —  in  spite  of  you ! 

1919 

200 — 


To  a  President 

If  this  was  our  battle,  if  these  were  our  ends, 
Which  were  our  enemies,  which  were  our  friends ! 

1919 


207 


Jehovah 

Brand  him  for  what  he  is, 

Have  done  with  him, 

Cast  out  Jehovah ! 

Cast  out  the  author  of  eternal  war, 

Slayer  of  little  children  and  of  joy  I 

If  there  be  churches  that  will  harbor  him, 
Burn  them,  destroy  them,  rend  them  stone  from 
stone ! 

If  there  be  men  and  women  who  will  hide  him, 
Love  them  with  laughter,  crowd  into  their  hearts 
Till  there  be  room  for  nothing  else  but  love  1 

If  there  be  dread  of  enemies, 

If  there  be  godly  and  terrific  wrath, 

Know  first  the  mightiest  enemy  of  all, 

Cast  out  the  jealous  god, 

Cast  out  the  king  of  war, 

Cast  out  Jehovah  1 

*?*9 

202 


The  Resurrection  of  the  Body 

The  people  of  the  earth  are  mighty 
And  their  time  is  at  hand. 
They  do  not  believe  how  soon, 
But  I  believe. 


The  rulers  of  the  earth  are  stubborn, 
But  their  end  is  at  hand. 
They  dare  not  think  of  the  end, 
But  I  dare. 

The  dead  of  the  earth  are  past  reckoning, 
But  they  are  still  to  be  reckoned  with. 
They  do  not  seem  to  be  living, 
But  I  live. 

For  to  dream  and  to  dare 

Is  the  only  life, 

And  to  dream  and  to  dare  and  to  die 

Is  the  resurrection. 

1919 

—203— 


The  True  Pacifist 

Come  at  me  with  your  scorn, 
And  strike  me  with  your  rod  — 
Though  I  be  slain  a  thousand  times, 
I  will  not  fight  my  God. 

1919 


— 204 — 


The  Mask 

I  saw  the  old  lie  look  up  again, 
With  its  mask. 


O  truth, 

If  they  must  have  masks, 

Where  is  yours  ?  — 

That  you  may  seem  beauty 

To  heroes 

And  to  poets 

And  to  women. 

1919 


— 205 — 


The  Eclipse 


Between  the  sun  and  moon 
Passed  the  earth 
On  a  January  night  during  war, 
And  the  face  of  the  moon  changed 
Reflecting  blood. 

But  the  sun  was  not  put  out  .  .  . 
Unlike  me,  it  took  the  whole  thing 
Largely  and  lightly. 


— 206 — 


Gardening 


Go  and  plant  a  lilac-tree 
With  water  and  with  sun. 
Gardens  are  a  surety, 
Gardening's  never  done. 

Shut  the  gateway  and  let  pass 
The  windy  throng  of  war, 
See  the  sky  in  the  water-glass 
Ripple  as  before  — 

A  rosebud  bending  at  a  cloud, 
A  mountain  and  a  tree, 
A  shadow  telling  what  a  shroud 
Rain  can  be. 

Would  you  bring  unruly  folk 
Into  a  ruly  land? 
Would  you  plant  the  poison-oak, 
To  show  a  poisoned  hand? 

Shut  them  out  and  have  no  ruth, 
Bid  them  all  good-bye, 
— 207 — 


All  who  have  not  learned  the  truth 
That  beauty  dares  to  die. 

And  if  ruin  come  awhile  — 
Then  let  earth  renew 
The  gradual  beauty,  mile  by  mile, 
Which  is  always  you. 


— 208— 


Epilogue 


To  a  Volunteer 

And  arc  you  off  to  war,  Pan? 
Dance  well  among  the  dead ! 
For  there's  a  shaking  in  your  shin, 
And  now  the  tufts  of  hair  begin 
To  crest  upon  your  head. 

A  crest  becomes  a  helmet,  Pan, 
A  hoof  becomes  a  sword, 
And  pipes  become  a  bayonet  — 
And  so,  to  feel  the  music  jet, 
You  drill  before  the  Lord. 

And  are  you  off  to  war,  Pan? — ? 
1  thought  you  long  had  shed 
That  gory  happiness  of  horn 
You  felt  before  the  Christ  was  born 
Yet  are  you  off  to  war,  Pan?  — 
Dance  well  among  the  dead ! 


— 21 1 — 


The  Faun  that  Went  to  War 

He  hid  his  hoof  in  an  army  shoe 

And  he  marched  and  marched  and  marched, 
He  did  the  things  they  told  him  to  do* — 

Though  the  deep  of  his  soul  was  parched 
For  leaves  with  morning.dripping  through, 

Yet  he  marched  and  marched  and  marched. 

They  told  him  the  stars  would  drip  no  more 
Till  he  killed  and  killed  and  killed, 

So  he  left  the  ways  that  he  loved  before 
Where  his  leafy  cup  was  filled 

And  he  threw  it  aside  and  he  went  to  war 
And  he  killed  and  killed  and  killed. 

And  he  killed  a  man  'and  saw  him  fall, 

And  he  wept  and  wept  and  wept 
For  a  body  once  as  young  and  tall 

As  dawn  when  the  whole  world  slept  .  .  . 
He  had  killed  the  highest  heart  of  all 

And  he  wept. 


-212- 


The  Singing  Faun 

I  had  come  down  from  the  hill  of  trees, 
Down  from  the  prophetic  leaves, 

And  I  had  seized  among  men  a  weapon 

And  sung  among  men  a  brave  song, 

And  I  had  broken  the  weapon  and  thrown  it  away, 

Singing  among  men  a  braver  song, 

And  was  tall  with  the  pride  of  my  singing, 

When  one  who  was  wounded  like  a  scarlet  tanager 

Looked  up  at  me  from  his  blood, 

Looked  up  and  murmured  in  so  still  a  voice 

That  my  singing  was  undone, 

My  weapon  of  song  broken : 

"  Go  back  to  the  hill  of  trees, 
I  need  you  there,"  he  said, 
"  Go  back  to  the  prophetic  leaves, 
My  singing  faun! 
Must  I  be  stripped  of  everyone, 
Must  I  be  stripped  of  you? 
—213— 


Must  I  be  so  forsaken  and  condemned? 
Shall  no  one  listen  for  me  to  the  trees, 
Shall  no  one  speak  for  me  among  the  leaves? 

And  I  came  back  to  the  hill  of  trees, 
And  I  came  back  to  the  prophetic  leaves. 


—214— 


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